A Long Journey Home
by Rakeesh
Summary: A trip to Egypt, an attempt to find new purpose for their friend results in Ron and Hermione losing her entirely, and gaining back something new... and something very, very old. (fem!Harry, powerful!Harry, sporadic updates!)
1. Ever Forward

Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.  
There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.  
Thou knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose,

and having no time we must scramble for a chance.  
We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by  
while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,  
and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut;  
but I find that yet there is time.

- Rabindranath Tagore, "Endless Time"

* * *

"Merlin, it's hot. Who's idea was this anyway?"

"Yours," Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger both answered, with the drone of repetition.

Jasmine Potter, their friend and the former "Girl-Who-Lived", who eventually became the "Girl-Who-Won", frowned from underneath her hat, which was doing an inadequate job of shielding her from the sun as she bounced along on top of a camel. "Mine? Well, I have stupid ideas. You both know that. It's your fault for letting me go through with it."

Bill laughed quietly as he lead the three of them along on his own camel. The Egyptian sun beat down on them all, but Bill was more used to it thanks to his years curse-breaking for Gringotts. Jasmine was getting the worst of it… along with her fair skin, she'd also never left the United Kingdom before, and so the heat and sun of the Sahara was an unwelcome surprise.

But he was glad to have her with him, along with his brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law. He agreed with Ron and Hermione: Jasmine had been listless ever since the defeat of Voldemort two years beforehand. While she'd allowed Hermione to drag her back to Hogwarts to finish their schooling, ever since then she'd been mostly just existing… not thriving. He didn't blame her too much. Her entire existence up until the Battle of Hogwarts - as it had come to be known - had centred around the confrontation and defeat of the madman Tom Riddle, aka Voldemort. Though it was seldom mentioned directly, he was certain she hadn't believed she would survive the battle.

Although if his brother was to be believed, she _hadn't_. Dying, even if only briefly, had to have some kind of effect on a person. Add to that the friends and loved ones she'd lost - Bill knew she'd loved Fred like a brother - and she had every reason to be depressed. Since that day she'd been living life - as the muggles would say - on autopilot. Ron and Hermione were worried that, having become engaged and moved into a flat together, that Jasmine was feeling excluded, adrift.

The young woman couldn't be relied upon to talk about it. Hermione had always said Jasmine had a martyr complex, and Bill agreed. So, one day a mere three weeks ago, when Bill had made an offhand comment about Gringotts asking him to look at a few more tombs - he was still desk-bound at Gringotts, but he was also still one of their best curse-breakers - and Jasmine had actually expressed some interest, her two friends had leaped on the suggestion like starved wolves.

It wasn't hard to convince the goblins to allow him to take a few "apprentices" along… so long as they didn't take any valuables from the tombs, they didn't care. Bill, along with his parents, had expressed concern about the safety of the trip, but Ron had said that whatever they ran into couldn't possibly be worse than what they dealt with during the horcrux hunt. Bill had replied that that kind of attitude was _exactly_ the kind of thing that could get you killed, or at least badly injured. But privately he conceded that his brother had a point. And so, with the edict that _he was in charge_ - no ifs, ands, or buts - he allowed them to come along.

The goblins had asked him to view three tombs in all, deep in the Sahara, near the border to Libya. They provided the portkey there, but Bill had to rent the camels and buy the provisions himself, which he'd expense later. Well, expense his own… the goblins would refuse to pay for the others. He didn't care, he had enough money to cover the costs, and it was well worth it… the woman he considered a little sister in all but blood had virtually transformed the moment they landed in Egypt, in a hot, forgotten village southwest from Siwa. A week and two tombs in, she was sunburned, dehydrated, tired, sore, and even a little bit whiny. But her eyes glittered as their little group approached each tomb, showing more life than she had in months.

The first two tombs had been busts… empty, and possibly decoys. But they'd been good practice… he'd taught the three of them the basics of approaching an Egyptian tomb. Divining the traps, scouting out the curses present, and so on. All three of them paid attention - they knew firsthand how dangerous a laid curse could be. Jasmine had exhibited Hermione-like intensity as he instructed, and he took that as indication she was breaking free from her ennui. She'd said very little about what, if anything, she intended to do with her life since graduating Hogwarts… maybe he could convince her to become a curse-breaker.

The third location was the deepest into the desert, and the one for which they truly needed the camels. No tame magical creature was as tolerant of the heat, and they couldn't apparate to the location. Unfortunately, that meant a good eight-hour ride on camel-back, and even cooling charms could only do so much. There was no wind to swirl the sand, but that just meant it clung to them, seeming to leech the moisture from their bodies.

It didn't take long for the endless ergs of sand to become tiresome, with only the occasional consultation of a Four-Point spell to make sure they were on the right path. They were west of the Qattara Depression, very close to the southwestern corner of Egypt, near the border to Libya. Hermione had delighted in the landscape initially, explaining to all of them the difference between ergs, regs, and hamadas, but eventually even the encyclopedic witch had run out of things to talk about, and the punishing sun had silenced all conversation. All they were left with was silence and the plodding, _boring_ pace of the camels.

Well, not complete silence. "Biiiiill," came Jasmine's voice from behind him, "are we there yet?"

He knew she did that to aggravate him, but he'd grown up with Fred and George and wasn't so easily needled. In fact, her mischief was a good sign. He smiled back at them. "As it happens, we are," he said, as they crested the final dune.

Below them was a small plain, a circle the size of a quidditch pitch, surrounded on all sides by dunes. Any wizard could tell that something magical was holding back the sands. The ground was dotted with small pebbles, and at the center of it was the unmistakable shape of a pyramid. Like the others they'd seen, this one was barely larger than a small house and was the colour of the land around it, making it effectively invisible from the air. It was deceptively innocent in looks, and Bill understood how intensely dangerous it could be.

"A tomb, this far into the Sahara," Hermione marveled. She shook her head. "It boggles the mind." And it did; considering the magics and technologies available at the time, to be set so far into lands hostile to life was amazing. But it was typical for the "true" tombs of the Pharaohs, the place where they hid their real bodies and treasure. The great pyramids, constructed by and for muggles, were meant to draw the attention of thieves and looters, filled with decoy mummies and a tiny helping of treasure.

The three others had rode up alongside him and were looking down at the object of their journey. He turned in the saddle to look at them. "Okay, let's set up the tent and secure the camels. I could use a drink myself." A look of relief crossed all three faces. "Don't go near the tomb, not yet. We'll set up on that flat area there," he said, pointing at a smooth area located a few yards from the entrance.

"I want to be clear: don't go near the tomb. I left this one last for a reason," he said, after making sure all three of the "Golden Trio" were looking at him. "If the goblin scouts were right, this is the tomb of Senusret the Third. He was a pharaoh who ruled around 1800 BC, so this tomb is quite old. But the main concern is that Senusret had access to Wadjet, so the curses and traps are going to be extremely refined and dangerous, as we believe this to be the last tomb she built. Understand?"

They nodded, though both Jasmine and Ron looked confused. "Wadjet?" his brother asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but let Bill explain. "Wadjet was a witch, one of the first we know of in history. She lived in Egypt and served the pharaohs, one after another, for nearly two thousand years."

"_Two thousand_ years?" Ron exclaimed. "How?"

Bill shrugged. "We don't know. The most likely explanation is that Wadjet was a name taken on by a series of witches, perhaps master to apprentice. Or, maybe she had an early version of the Philosopher's Stone."

"Or maybe she had a horcrux," Jasmine speculated sourly.

"Maybe," Bill replied. "The worst-case scenario is that we're dealing with one witch who had near two millennia, and maybe more, to perfect her craft. So that's what we'll assume, okay?"

They nodded again, and so the four of them rode down into the small valley between the dunes. Soon Bill and Ron had the wizard tent set up. Jasmine, despite her complaints, delayed taking shelter from the sun long enough to put out some feed for the camels. Bill didn't much care for the animals beyond their necessity - the spitting, ugh! - but Jasmine seemed to like them well enough.

Soon they were all arranged around a small table inside the magically-expanded tent, enjoying a drink of water and the tent's cooling charms. Although they'd probably all love a blast of cold air, Bill had lessened the charms a bit… going back into the heat would be all the more brutal if coming from high-intensity air conditioning.

Hermione pressed the glass of water against her neck, ignoring the way it made Ron's eyes follow. "Jas, you've lost the right to complain about _my_ notions of a vacation."

The other woman had removed her hat, her wild black locks not in the least bit matted down. She rubbed her forehead with her arm, wiping sweat away from her famous lightning-bolt scar - her most-known and least-favourite feature. Over the past couple of years, since her "death", the scar had begun to finally fade, lightning to a soft white line instead of the vivid red it had been for almost two decades.

The owner of that scar smiled, despite her fatigue. "What? You mean you'd prefer going to Germany to watch the Quidditch finals instead of investigating ancient relics of history? Hermione, I'm surprised."

"_I_ would have," Ron grumbled.

The witch rolled her eyes. "I didn't say I wasn't enjoying myself. I'm just saying you seem to be, too."

"Maybe," Jasmine replied, though with a small smile. "It's new and yet familiar at the same time, if you get my meaning."

They did. "If you're going to do it, it's nice to do it with some real backing," Ron admitted.

Hermione sighed. "And I suppose we do owe the goblins."

"We'd _owe_ them if Griphook hadn't tried to get us killed," Jasmine growled. Ron nodded.

"Well, he paid the price, didn't he?" the other witch countered. Hermione, being a constant crusader for social justice, was quick to forgive. Jasmine was more like a Weasley: some slights weren't forgiven or forgotten so easily. She snorted, crossing her arms.

"Come on, now," Bill said, trying to mollify them before it turned into a real argument. "We're here, let's not over-analyze why. We're looking for treasure and adventure." He smirked. "In that order of preference, hopefully."

That perked her up. "When do we crack the tomb?"

He lifted an eyebrow at her wording. "We're a few hours to sundown. We'll probably try to take down the outer defenses tonight, then we'll sleep on it. Tomorrow we'll go inside and see what's there. That way we can spend the day inside and out of the sun."

"Sounds like a plan to me," she agreed.

And so that was the plan they followed. After a quick meal of bread and cheese from the tent's cooler, Bill lead them outside and began the delicate work of unraveling the wards on the entrance. Slowly, and explaining each step, he taught them how to find the edges of a ward without triggering it, and how to find the anchor stones, and then take the ward down. Having the three of them along proved quite handy… he was able to demonstrate how one wizard using a sustained _Finite_ could stretch a ward and allow another wizard to lift the spell off the anchor. That was useful, because the wards he found were complex and still very strong even after millennia.

"These are definitely Wadjet's wards," he commented after near an hour of work.

"You can tell that?" Hermione asked, curious.

"Sure. You encounter a certain wizard's work often enough and you can start to tell their style." He waved his wand, and the rune map of the spellwork appeared above the anchor stone he was working with. "See that particular arithmancy configuration? That's Wadjet for sure."

Hermione peered over his shoulder, while the others looked on. "That's an interesting rune layout. What would that ward have done if we'd tripped it?"

"Probably a conflagration. See those runes there?" He pointed at the softly glowing _sowilo_ and _kenaz_ runes. "You'll find the same in the runic calculations for the Fiendfyre spell. Wadjet loved her fire." Behind him, Jasmine and Ron looked at each other nervously.

After another hour of work, the ward was down. Bill put away his wand and wiped his forehead. The sun was sinking below the horizon, and the temperature would soon drop. "There. It's open, but we won't go inside yet. There might be more wards on the interior of the door. Let's get some rest and look tomorrow morning."

With that they returned to the tent, for another helping of bread and cheese and more water. Soon afterward they were settled into the tent's cots in what passed for a "bedroom" in the large interior of the wizarding tent. Ron dropped to sleep almost immediately, his snores filling the room. Hermione sighed and cast a silencing charm on him; Jasmine giggled.

"You're going to have to get used to that, Future-Missus-Weasley," she teased.

"He wasn't that bad during the hunt," Hermione complained.

Jasmine beamed. "That's because _I_ was silencing him then."

"I'm going to drag him to St. Mungo's and have his sinuses checked out. That isn't normal."

The two women chatted quietly for a little while longer, and Bill smiled from his cot, pretending to sleep, glad to hear the animation in Jasmine's voice. After a while they snuggled into their blankets and nodded off. Bill tugged the blankets up to his chin, warding off the chill of the desert night, and followed their example.

* * *

The next morning began with a light breakfast, the four of them gathering around the table once again to enjoy a round of oatmeal. They dressed in tighter clothing, leaving behind the loose linen robes they'd worn yesterday to shield them from the sun, in favour of jeans and tight-fitting long-sleeved shirts.

"Unlike the decoy tombs, which were built by muggles and were limited in size, these main-tombs can be quite large," Bill had explained. "There's expansion charms, multiple levels, and numerous rooms. You don't want to trip on a robe or get a sleeve caught in something."

They all carried backpacks, filled with simple stuff like their canteens, a small meal, a knife, and even a muggle crowbar. At Jasmine's curious look Bill had explained how intensely useful a crowbar could be… it saved the trouble of transfiguring an equivalent, and was useful when you didn't want to cast around a particularly sensitive ward.

So prepared, they set out to the entrance of the tomb, Jasmine leaving a bucket of feed and a large trough of water - filled with a Water-Summoning charm - out for the camels. Although the animals didn't strictly need it, it would keep them from wandering too far off.

Together, Bill and Jasmine pulled the door outward with a combination of levitation and summoning charms. The door became a black square set on the side of pyramid, swallowing the morning light. "Okay, stay a few steps behind me so you don't get caught in anything that goes off, in case I miss something. You have your emergency portkeys?" They nodded. "Good. They probably won't work inside, but if one of us gets injured we come back here and if needed portkey back to Siwa. Make sure-"

"Who's that?"

Bill looked in the direction Jasmine indicated, at the crest of one of the nearby dunes. "Who? What did you see?"

She blinked, green eyes squinting. "I could have sworn I saw a person over there. A woman, maybe. With a staff?"

Ron shrugged. "I didn't see anything."

"Neither did I," added Hermione.

"Okay, I must be seeing mirages. Sorry, Bill."

"Don't be," he said firmly. "In this business you call out suspicions first, then figure out whether they're valid. A false negative is much, much worse than a false positive."

One by one, they entered the tomb. The entrance was barely larger than a broom closet, the walls made of the same stone that formed the more well-known pyramids, a sculpted limestone. The entrance and the surrounding wards had done an admirable job of keeping out the sand; but the relentless substance had still managed to penetrate, grain by grain, over the thousands of years, until the floor was dusted with it. A long stone stairway lead downward, and torches - unbelievably old torches - sprang to life as they moved in. Bill's wand was out and constantly casting divination spells; he pronounced the stairwell safe and moved downward.

Hermione was fascinated by the torches. "So?" commented Ron. "We had those at Hogwarts."

"Yes, Ron, but the enchantments on those have to be renewed every fifty years or so. Even the spells cast by the Founders wore out after a couple of centuries. These are still working nearly four thousand years later! Do you realize the amount of skill required to make an enchantment that solid?"

"Sounds like Wadjet was your kind of witch."

"I would have loved to have met her."

"She tried to incinerate us at the door," Jasmine injected reality into the conversation. "Let's not make assumptions about how personable she might have been."

That said, they advanced in Bill's wake with care. Soon they were at the bottom of the stairs, in a medium-sized chamber with a door at one end. The walls here had obviously been smoothed with magic, before hieroglyphics had been added to almost every visible inch. Hermione and Bill were able to interpret some of them, pointing out the name of the Pharaoh, Senusret the Third.

"There," Bill said. He pointed at a symbol engraved on a portion of the wall. It was an eye, with long line above, a thick line descending like a tear, and a curling loop on one corner. "That's Wadjet's symbol, the Eye of Horus."

"Should we be worried?" Jasmine asked.

"Maybe, although we're not seeing the kind of defenses I'm used to from her work. She was…

well, getting kind of nasty near the end of her run."

"When the bad guy suddenly seems to mellow out, that's a bad sign in my experience."

He nodded, conceding the point. "Of course, this was one of the last tombs she ever built, if not the last. Maybe after two thousand years she was finally getting old. Or maybe she didn't build all this at all, and someone just imitated her mark to cash in on her reputation. Still, we'll be extra careful. If this _is_ her work, it'll be a good sign that the tomb is real and hasn't been plundered."

Their caution was justified almost immediately, as he discovered another ward stretched across the apparently-open door at the end of the room. With their help he brought it down, though he was sweating at the end of it.

He stopped and took a sip of water. "I'm glad I brought you guys along. That would have taken forever without you." Capping his canteen, he moved into the next room.

It was a wide, circular room, but the only door available was the one they entered through. There were no more of the enchanted torches; the only light was their own. The wandlights shone upon a stone post, set right in the centre of the room, about waist-high and no thicker than Bill's forearm, the top of the post carved into the shape of a snake. The walls, smooth and rounded at the floor and ceiling, were lacking any markings at all.

Jasmine looked around in confusion. "Is this it? An entire room just for a snake statue?"

"Reminds me a bit too much of Slytherin, if you ask me," Ron added with distaste.

Bill shook his head. "It's an uraeus," he said. "The Ancient Egyptians had a good view of snakes… they'd often wear crowns with the uraeus on them, for example. The goddess Wadjet was said to be a snake that coiled on the head of the sun god, Ra."

Ron grimaced. "Wonderful. An entire society of Slytherins." Hermione rolled her eyes at her fiance.

Bill waved his wand over the snake figure. "It's spelled. Don't touch it." The warning became moot a moment later, as the entire room _rotated_ with a loud, grinding rumble. The room they'd entered through disappeared as the round room turned away from it, showing only bare rock for long seconds.

After about a sixth of a turn a new room came into view. This new area was about the same size as the circular room, though square in shape. More hieroglyphics decorated the walls, and on one side was a large sarcophagus. Gold urns were set on each side of the grave, and in alcoves carved into the stone walls, there were the unmistakable shapes of human bodies.

"Bloody-!" Bill cursed. Then he sighed. "It detected my spell and reacted. _That's_ more of what I was expecting from Wadjet."

Ron laughed nervously. "Well, at least she didn't burn us. Maybe she's not so bad after all."

Bill spent long minutes examining the charm on the statue. Eventually he sighed again. "No traps, but I can't trigger it again. It might go off on its own. And I can't remove it without locking us at this location."

"Should we explore this room?" Hermione asked, cautiously peeking inside.

"Careful, now. I think we'll have to. Let me go first, though."

He did, stepping gingerly into the room, wand up and out at all times. He cast a spell to make enchanted objects glow, and the room was surprisingly dim; the uraeus behind them the brightest object affected. The walls themselves gave off a subtle blue light, illuminating yet more hieroglyphics.

Hermione - of course - had already learned the divination spells Bill was using. She cast one herself and made a small humming noise. "Durability charms on the walls."

"Pretty typical for a burial room. Look."

Ron and Jasmine cast their wand-lights in the direction they indicated. There at the rear of the room was a sarcophagus, set slightly above the floor on a stone dias. The alabaster coffin had been carved into the likeness of a person and then painted. Sheltered from even light, the paint still seemed fresh as they cast their lights across it. Only a thin layer of dust robbed the sarcophagus of luster. Around it were canopic urns, containing the dessicated organs of whoever inhabited the coffin.

"Is this the Pharaoh?" Jasmine asked.

"No," Bill answered. "The Pharaoh would be surrounded with his wife and servants and, whoever else was unlucky enough to be needed in his 'next life'." He squinted as he read the hieroglyphics along the walls. "I think this was Senusret's vizier. His right-hand man," he clarified for his brother's benefit. "He's… the door greeter, I guess you could say."

"I feel plenty welcome already, so he can stay in the box, please."

Bill laughed. "Wadjet didn't use Inferi, I'm glad to say."

"Then who did this?" Hermione asked.

They all turned to regard her discovery: a dried-out corpse propped against the wall behind them. It was obviously a person from modern times, as it - he - was dressed in a uniform. Time and the arid environment had drained all moisture from the flesh, leaving the corpse little more than parchment-like skin stretched over the skeleton. Bill stepped forward and played his werelight across the unfortunate man, and the German-military styling of the ancient cloth became obvious. On one arm was the unmistakable red and black swastika. On the other, though, was a black armband bearing a vertical line within a circle, within a triangle. A symbol the three younger magicals were intimately familiar with.

"The Hallows," Jasmine whispered.

Hermione made a pensive noise. "This must have been one of Grindelwald's men."

"How'd he end up in here?" Ron was crouched close to the body, scowling at it. For a brief moment Bill felt sad, that his brother and friends had experienced enough that a dead body wasn't as shocking or frightening as it should be.

"Grindelwald was always looking for power. I'm sure items to be found in a tomb built by an ancient maybe-immortal witch would interest him."

"Hermione?" Jasmine said, pointing. They all leaned in to look; there, on the remains of skin on the poor man's throat, was a wound they all recognized easily... Jasmine especially: a lightning bolt.

"The Killing Curse," Ron said, wide-eyed. "He didn't set off a trap, someone killed him right here."

"One of the Allied wizards?" the raven-haired witch wondered. "Or another one of Grindelwald's men?"

"I don't know, but there's something important this tells us," Hermione said. "We're not the first people to get inside here, and maybe not even the second."

Bill nodded grimly. "That might explain why the defences seem light… someone already took down a lot of them. Of course that might mean the tomb's been emptied by now."

The four of them looked among each other, pondering the notion that all their efforts here might be to waste. Finally, Jasmine shrugged. "Let's worry about getting out of here, first."

He nodded at the wisdom of that. "Let's try through there," he said, gesturing to an exit on the south wall.

In a familiar pattern, he moved through the door, casting the entire time. The others stayed behind, their wands up and ready to intercede if anything happened. He found nothing to be obviously concerned about; it was a near-empty room, with what seemed to be a few large urns and possibly even ancient rotted wood in the corners. Dust layered everything, undisturbed for centuries. On the left side of the room was a door blocked by a stone wall; he guessed that the rotating room could also spin to deposit visitors directly into this room. Opposite him was yet another door obstructed with a stone slab.

"Okay, come on- _Hey!_"

"Bill!" the other three shouted as a stone slab suddenly swung down to block the door. Everyone's natural reaction was to try and dash through; they barely skidded to a stop as the slab slammed into place with enough force to shake both rooms.

"_Damn it!_" Bill snarled. He didn't beat his fists against the stone; he knew better. He lifted his wand and scanned it, finding no spells beyond a durability charm. _Then_ he banged his fist against it; an answering thump came back.

"Can you hear me?" he shouted.

Their reply was almost impossible to hear. "Yes! ... hurt?"

"No! I'm fine! How about you guys?"

"... fine!"

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Help me levitate! _Levitate!_"

For long minutes, shouting back and forth, they tried to simply lift the slab out of the way, but either they weren't coordinating well enough, or the slab was resisting them. Bill tried some other spells he knew; a goblin-modified version of the Unlocking charm, as well as a "trigger" hex that would hopefully toggle whatever magic lifted and dropped the slab. Nothing worked. Finally, in frustration, he warned the others off and tried to simply blast through the wall. The reductor bounced off, and he was forced to dive to the side to avoid having his head taken off. He heard the spell shatter an url behind him, ceramic bits raining over the room as he covered his head with his arm.

He lifted his wand, glaring at the slab in the wand-light as he clambered to his feet.

Wait.

He paused, his senses - and most importantly _instinct -_ honed from dozens of other tombs and vaults around the world, telling him something was off.

The shadows in the room were wrong.

He turned, and nearly jumped out of his skin. There, standing on the other side of the room, was a cloaked woman. Her face was hidden, concealed within a large hood. Only her chin and mouth were visible, tilted at an amused angle; soft, full lips and a feminine chin. The rest of her face was hidden beneath shadows that were too deep to be natural. Her robes looked to be soft cotton, a yellowish white in colour, loose and well-suited for the desert. The source of the light was her staff, which stood only slightly shorter than she did. She held it with both hands just in front and to the side of herself, smooth arms extending from the voluminous sleeves of her robes.

Bill jumped back a step in surprise, but the woman did not move, nor did she react to his wand lifting. But he did not cast, and after a moment he lowered his hand.

"Um… hello?" he said hesitantly. She did not reply. "I… my name is William. William Weasley. My friends call me Bill. I… well, I seem to be separated from them." He frowned at her lack of response. Briefly he wondered if she was an illusion; he'd once been taunted by an extremely obnoxious glamour in a vault in South America for near an hour... it'd only stopped when he'd found and blasted the anchor stone for the enchantment, an extremely satisfying if inelegant solution at the time. But then he remembered Jasmine commenting on seeing a woman in a robe outside. He perked up. "Did you follow us in here? How did you get around the rotating room?" He sighed. "Can you help me get back to my friends?"

That brought a reaction. She tapped her staff against the floor twice; a door slid aside in the wall just behind her, and the lights from the wand and staff barely penetrated the inky blackness beyond.

Unfortunately, _that_ door was on the opposite side of the room from the door that lead back to the others. He looked at dubiously. "Uh… thank you? I'm afraid my friends are trapped behind _this_ door, though. Are you able to open this one?" Nothing. "Do you speak English?" he asked, hiding his frustration.

"So polite," she replied in answer, amusement plain, in a throaty high alto similar to Jasmine's. Her voice had no accent... or he should say she had a strange mishmash of accents, similar to the old wizards he had met who worked for Gringotts in remote locations for so long that they picked up some of the local patois. "Quite a step up from the normal intruders here, I must say. But I'm afraid that, no, I can't get you through that door. I will guide you to your friends, but the path is that way."

"Oh… well, thank you," he said, confused. "Are you familiar with the wards and traps?"

"They will pose no threat so long as you are with me."

Bill felt like ice water was dripping down his neck. "May I know your name?"

"Oh, I prefer not to be tied down with labels. Are you coming?" she asked as she turned toward the door.

"Please, just a moment." He turned back to the door. "Guys! I may have found a way around!" he shouted, uncertain whether or not they could hear him. "Sit tight, be careful, and _don't touch anything!_" He turned back to the mysterious woman, swallowing his misgivings. "Lead on," he said.

* * *

"Could you make out what he was saying?"

Ron shook his head at Jasmine. "Only parts. I think he said something about a way around? Sit tight?"

"Well, that makes sense," Hermione said. "He must be following the rooms around back to the beginning, and then will take the spinning room back to us. I hope."

"I hope, too," the raven-haired witch said. "This tomb is making up for the other two in spades."

"Bill did say Wadjet was dangerous. I think we've gotten off lucky."

"Luck runs out. I'd rather not be here when it does."

"Rethinking your plan of becoming a curse-breaker?" Ron asked wryly.

"I'm rethinking my plan of doing it _before_ finishing the training. I don't like being useless."

"I don't think Bill thinks of us as useless," Hermione said placatingly. "He's needed us several times just getting this far."

"I know, I just…" She waved her hands. "I don't know what I mean. I guess I got used to being the one people needed. And that sounds really stupid and narcissistic, and I'm sorry."

Hermione hugged her glum friend. "I think you mean you're used to relying on yourself. That's not stupid."

She received a wry grin in response. "Well, no… I'm used to relying on _you_ two. But you're stuck here with me."

"That's right, you're stuck with us," Hermione replied, and she gave Jasmine a look that told her that she didn't just mean their current situation. "And now you'll have to sit and wait with us for Bill to rescue all of us."

"Ugh, waiting."

"Yes, it grates against your Potter heritage, I know. Ron, what in the world are you doing?"

Both of them turned to where Ron was levitating the lid off one of the canopic jars. "Just peeking inside. Are these really dried organs? Is that a heart?"

"Ron, if you set off a trap and get us all killed I'll never forgive you. Put that back!"

"Relax, 'Mione," Ron replied, replacing the jar lid and lifting the next. "I used Bill's divination spell, none of the jars are spelled. Not even a vermin-repulsing spell. I was just-" He was forced to eat his words a moment later as he lifted a lid and something jumped out. The redhead shouted in fright and jumped back, tripping over his feet and falling against the wall.

The girls had their wands up, but no attack came. "What in the world is _that_?" Hermione asked, flabberghasted.

The thing that had jumped out of the jar was small, round, and golden. Fairy-like wings fluttered faster than the eye could see. It darted around the room, occasionally hiding behind the sarcophagus or the jars, or in the alcoves arranged around the room. But most of the time it fluttered around their heads, as if examining them.

"It's a snitch!" Jasmine exclaimed.

"That's impossible!" replied Hermione. "This tomb is nearly four thousand years old! Quidditch wasn't even invented until 1050 AD." At their surprised looks, she scowled. "What? I've been hanging around you two for nine years now, you think I wouldn't pick up something?"

Jasmine shook her head. "Well, impossible or not, that's a snitch." The snitch seemed particularly interested in her, buzzing around her head.

"That makes it _more_ suspicious, not less! Jas- No!"

Hermione's warning came too late. The snitch had taken to taunting the raven-haired witch, fluttering near her nose. Being a Seeker through-and-through, she'd reacted naturally by grabbing it out of the air. A pulse of energy rippled through the air, knocking the other two back a step. A cage seemingly made of rings of white lightning appeared around their friend.

"Hermione!"

"Jasmine! Let go! Let go of it!"

"I can't! My hand is stuck!" She tried to reach for her wand; as if it knew her intention, the cage constricted, pinning her arm against her side.

Ron dashed forward trying to simply grab her, but he was knocked back yet again, this time clear off his feet. Hermione brought her wand up, casting every dispel and curse-removal she knew, but every single one bounced off the cage. The magical trap was glowing brighter and brighter, energy building up within it with an ominous hum, until the trapped witch was almost lost in the glare.

"Jas!" Ron shouted in panic.

"Oh… oh Merlin. I'm sorry guys, I didn't mean-" The rest of her words were lost as the glare reached a crescendo. Suddenly there was a pop, and the bright orb which contained their friend snapped out of existence, leaving them blinking away spots from their eyes in the sudden darkness. A divot had been carved from the stone floor, and smoke wafted up from the smooth-bottomed hole.

Ron rushed forward. He swung his arms around, as if Jasmine had merely donned her invisibility cloak. "Jasmine! _Jasmine!_"

"Ron, stand back! _Homenum Revelio_!" Failing that, she tried a number of divinations, until she'd exhausted her own large library of spells.

"Oh Merlin… _Jasmine!_" Ron cried.

"Ron… _Ron!_ Calm down!" Hermione said, though she was panicking herself. "She's not gone. She's _not gone!_ She's just invisible, or portkeyed away! Bill has to have seen something like this before… he'll come back and he'll help us track her down!" She said it as much to convince herself as her fiance.

"Jas… Oh, 'Mione…" Ron was in near tears.

Hermione grabbed him and hugged him tightly, trying to stave off her own sobs in the suddenly lonely room.

* * *

Bill halted as the woman paused in her steps, as if hearing something from afar. Then she began walking more purposefully.

He was glad of it… as they'd taken a circuitous path, through side-rooms and hidden passages, he'd begun to wonder if she was deliberately wasting his time. Only his strong suspicions as to her identity kept him from making an issue of it. She easily bypassed traps and wards... simply waving her staff to get past them.

As if the wards to the ancient tomb _recognized_ her.

But now he found himself curious. "What is it?"

"Fate," she replied simply. "Come along, let's get you to your friends."

"I thought we were already headed there," he said with frustration.

"Of course we were. But we needed to wait for the right time. That time is now."

"What?" Bill looked at her, confused. "What do you mean by that? Are we running out of time?"

"On the contrary," she replied. She looked at him, still hidden by her cloak. There was a strange eagerness in her voice. "We've gained time. Or time has gained us. It depends on how you look at it."

"I don't understand."

"Of course not. Come along, now." She walked away, and he was forced to hurry after. She tapped her staff against a piece of stone wall, which slid into the ceiling. Beyond was another room, a storeroom of some sort, filled with large ceramic jars which had once been used to store food, long since turned to dust. She strode in confidently, and on the far side of the room a portion of the wall slid aside, revealing the rotating, circular room they'd arrived in. "Ah, just in time." Leading him inside, she set the head of her staff against the snake statue, and the entire room began spinning slowly with an eager rumbling.

Bill looked at the head of the staff, seeing the uraeus there, and seeing how it matched the carving on her staff. It was all the confirmation he needed. "You're Wadjet," he breathed, utterly certain and yet unable to believe it.

The cloaked head turned to regard him. "People used to call me that, once upon a time."

A raft of questions floated through his mind, and he lacked the courage to ask any of them. He decided to leave them to Hermione; nothing could restrain that girl from seeking knowledge. Instead he concentrated on the exit from the rotating room as it passed a number of other branches in the tomb, and then finally settled on the sarcophagus room.

Within were Ron and Hermione, hugging each other. Bill darted forward. "Guys!"

"Bill!" The two jumped away from each other. For a moment he thought he'd interrupted them in an embarrassing moment, but the watery eyes of Hermione and the panicked look on Ron's face had his heart in his throat. "Bill, quick! It's Jasmine!"

A chill fist gripped his heart... the last time he'd heard that emotion in his brother's voice had been at the Battle of Hogwarts. "What happened?" he asked, forcing calm he didn't feel into his voice. He was the oldest, and the leader of the expedition… they couldn't afford for him to surrender to fear at the moment.

"We triggered a trap. It caught Jasmine… she was in some kind of glowing white cage, and it just disappeared. It was a portkey, right?"

"There was no heat, and there's no… blood," Hermione added shakily, struggling with her own control. "She wasn't in pain, so it wasn't hurting her." He could hear the desperation in her voice.

Bill shook his head… he'd never encountered a trap like that. He strode forward to the spot where the two indicated - obvious enough by the shallow hole in the floor that hadn't been there before - and waved his wand. Spells to detect invisibility returned nothing. He even tried a spell that was _speculated_ could detect objects under a Fidelius… nothing.

The room brightened as Wadjet and her werelight stood in the doorway. Wadjet! She would know-

He froze. She _would_ know. She _had_ known.

He slowly turned to her. Ron and Hermione looked at her with confusion and trepidation. The mysterious woman merely stood there, and he knew she was watching him carefully. "You knew," he said. Ron raised his eyebrows… he was familiar with that tone in his brother's voice, and knew the best response to it was to run and hide. Bill possessed the infamous Weasley temper, but his was the still, cold rage of his father rather than the fiery loudness of his mother. "You were deliberately keeping me away from them until this happened."

"_What_?" Ron growled, his wand practically vibrating in his hand. Ron definitely took after their mother.

The three of them watched the cloaked figure, who continued to stand impassively. "Yes," she said solemnly.

"Why?" demanded Bill.

"Because it needed to happen."

"A snitch…" Hermione muttered. "That trap was laid for _her_. You deliberately targeted her!"

"I did," the woman replied. "She-"

"_You bitch!_" Ron roared, a spell lashing out from his wand. She reacted quicker than thought, slapping the white bolt aside with contemptuous ease. He followed with a reductor, which she spun aside to allow past, her staff raising and then slamming into the ground. A blast of white energy exploded outward, knocking them all off their feet.

Hermione tried for a stunner from her position on the ground, but Wadjet merely held out a hand and ripped the wand from the witch's hand with a Summoning charm. The wand flipped through the air to land in Wadjet's outstretched hand to join Ron's.

The head of her staff moved to point at Bill, who had jumped to his feet. He held his wand steadily, the rest of him shaking with anger, but he did not cast. "How about you? Do _you_ have something to prove?" she asked dangerously.

"Why would you do this?" he asked.

"Because it _needed to happen_."

"You've said that twice! _Why_?"

"I was going to explain, until this fool decided to throw around spells!" She turned to regard Ron, who was standing with his fists balled, ready to charge the witch and try brawling where dueling failed. "There's very, very few people who have ever attacked me and lived to tell of it, boy! Count yourself fortunate!" The witch flung the two wands at the couple's feet.

"Then why?" Hermione asked, tears in her voice. "Why would you kill our friend?"

Where violence failed, the anguished tone of the honey-haired witch seemed to touch the woman. "She's not dead. She's just elsewhen."

"Not dead?" Hermione gasped. Then confusion took her. "Else_when_? What does that mean?"

"The trap was not meant to kill. It was a time distortion… a portkey, like you said, but through _time_, not space."

"But… that's impossible!"

The scorn in Wadjet's voice was plainly obvious. "For _you_, perhaps."

Hermione's hand tightened on her wand. "_If_ we believe you… _when _did you send her, then?"

"To the end of the Amratian period. When she and I first came together."

"Amratian… But… that's pre-historic Egypt! That's over five thousand years ago!"

Wadjet sniffed. "It's not polite to dwell on a lady's age."

"You killed her! You might not have done it directly, but you might as well have!"

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied. She pointed at Ron, who looked ready to attack again. "And don't be _stupid_, boy. I'll put you down again, and you'll be longer standing up this time." She turned her attention back to Hermione. "None of this is done by my will. I've done this because I _had_ to do it, because it was _fated_ to happen."

"You mentioned fate before," Bill said, gesturing at Ron to calm down. They were outmatched, and spellfire wasn't going to get them anywhere. "Why? Was this part of a prophecy or something?"

"Prophecy? No, nothing so sloppy. Prophecies work because one or both parties believe in them. They're inexact, and can be tricked." She looked back at Hermione, and Bill got the impression that Wadjet was speaking specifically for her, to make the young witch understand. "We are _all_ products of your friend's actions. When she went back, she set into motion events that culminated here, this very moment. I don't follow prophecy… I follow the will of Time itself."

"Bring her back," Ron growled.

"I cannot."

"_Bring her back!_"

"I _can not_! The passage, like a portkey, is _one way_! Nor would I bring her back were I able! Pull that thread, and everything unravels! The world you know comes apart, becomes something new… something that would very likely lack _you_! You would destroy your friend and yourselves! Not dead… _gone_. Destroyed in the most complete way possible… never having existed at all! Do you want that? Would _she_ want that?"

It was the one argument to silence them; they all knew the extent Jasmine would reach to protect them all. Ron crumpled, leaning against the sarcophagus and sinking to the floor, his face in his hands. Hermione went over to him and pulled him against her. Bill in turn laid a hand on her shoulder, as misery descended over the room.

After a few moments, Hermione looked up at Wadjet, who continued to wait patiently in the doorway. "What did she do?"

"Pardon?" Bill got the impression that the ancient witch hadn't expected that question.

"What did she do? What did Jasmine _do_, that made her presence back in time so important?"

"Well… for one, she helped make _me_."

Hermione blinked. "You're her daughter?"

The robed figure visibly twitched. "What? No! I meant in the metaphorical sense. Jasmine Potter made Wadjet possible, and everything that followed. The entire magical world as you know it stems from her."

"So she lived? Was she happy?"

Wadjet paused, and Bill could see her hands clenching around her staff. "She lived a very long time," she replied, and there was caution to her words. "During that time she was happy, she was sad… there was elation and there was despair. There was life, in other words."

"Did she have any children?"

Hermione was having much more success knocking Wadjet off-balance with questions than they'd all had with spells, Bill thought. "No," was the reply. "She tried, but she was unable." The young woman sighed and buried her face in Ron's shoulder.

The ancient woman seemed to watch them for long moments. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Had I the power, I would not be here. But it was lose her or lose _everything_. My presence here is _her_ choice. Please know this."

The three ignored her, trying to come to grips with their loss. But it wasn't time for that, Bill reluctantly acknowledged. First they needed to get out of the tomb and get their bearings. And then… and then, he thought, Wadjet or no, they'd come back with help. And see if they could get his adopted little sister _back_.

He stood and turned to Wadjet. "If you can't help us bring Jasmine back, can you help us get out of here?" He managed to tame some of the hostility in his voice, but his tone very much said '_You owe us_'.

"Of course, that's why I'm here. Contrary to what you might believe, I didn't come here to victimize anyone. Quite the opposite."

"Then, please… lead the way. Come on, Ron." Together with Hermione, they lifted the distraught young man to his feet. Pausing, he grasped his little brother by the shoulders. "She didn't die, Ron," he said softly, as much for himself as his brother. Later, they would cry and rage, but for now they needed to keep it together.

"Doesn't matter… she's gone," Ron said miserably.

Bill nodded. Then he turned to look to Wadjet, who gripped her staff, watching them. It was impossible to tell without seeing her face, but she seemed hesitant, like there was more she wanted to say. Bill doubted any of them were interested in hearing more from the woman who had taken their friend, so he merely gestured ahead. "Lead the way."

She nodded and walked into the spinning room, stopping a few steps in. They followed, pausing just behind her. She was staring at the central post… or where the snake-headed statue _used_ to be. In its place was shattered stone, from Ron's missed reductor curse.

She turned to look at Ron, and even with her face hidden her glare was like a physical force. "Well done," she commented snidely. Despite his grief, Ron glared back defiantly.

"Can you fix it?" Hermione asked.

"It took me a fortnight to enchant that axis to move this much stone. Do you want to wait that long for me to do it over again?" She shook her head. "There's another way. Come along." She turned and lead them back into the vizier's burial room. Striding past the sarcophagus, she rapped the stone slab which had blocked Bill with her staff, and it groaned aside. Together they followed her through.

The path they followed was similar to the path she'd lead him through initially, circling around the now-defunct rotating room. They passed more mummies and store rooms, which Wadjet offhandedly had contained furniture long ago. In the third room, instead of proceeding to the door opposite, she went to the exterior wall, where a large statue was placed. It would have taken any two wizards to lift, but Wadjet merely waved her staff and the statue floated to the side. Another tap, and the wall behind parted like a curtain with the rasping of stone against stone, revealing a tunnel descending into the darkness behind, wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side. Wadjet went inside without hesitation, and after a moment Ron followed her. Bill drew up last, wanting Hermione between himself and his brother.

The witch was chewing her lip in distracted thought. "Are you okay?" Bill asked softly.

She blinked up at him in the light from their wands, seemingly surprised. She thought for a moment. "No," she replied softly. "But I'll keep it together."

"What are you thinking about, then? I know you, it wouldn't be something unimportant."

She hesitated. "It's just… there's something off about this."

His eyes flicked up to their unusual guide. "Do you think she's lying to us?" he asked in a low voice.

Hermione shook her head. "No, I think she's telling us the truth. I don't know how I know, but… I _know_. And that's part of what I find so strange."

He shrugged helplessly. He was no dunce, but Hermione was far ahead of him in intellect and he knew it. If she felt something was off, something probably was. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Neither do I, that's the problem," she replied with frustration. She smiled lopsidedly at him, though there was no real happiness in it. "When I get an idea, I'll let you know."

He nodded, falling back a step. They were nearing the bottom of the tunnel, and a large stone wall loomed ahead of them. Wadjet set her staff against it, but paused.

Turning back to them, she spoke in a quiet voice. "This is a burial ground," she reminded them. "No matter what you think of the people inside, no matter how different your faith is from theirs, I expect you to at least be respectful. Remember that." Not waiting for their acknowledgement, she turned back to her staff.

Whatever magic coursed through the wood was invisible, but the effects were obvious as the stone wall folded aside much like the entrance to Diagon Alley. Within was a room the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The walls were smoothed and painted with a yellowish paint that had faded to gold, and carved upon them were yet more hieroglyphics. Sarcophagi were set in pairs in each corner, and in the center was a raised dais, upon which sat the largest and most ornate sarcophagus they'd seen.

And lining the walls and around the sarcophagi was treasure… gold coins and cups and jewelry and more, set upon wooden tables which had long since rotted away, leaving the treasures in glorious piles upon the floor. The precious metals and jewels seemed to catch their lights and amplify it, making the entire room shine.

"Blimey," Ron muttered, and beside him Hermione's jaw hung loose. Bill had seen larger hoards during his time with Gringotts, but not many.

"Behold the tomb of Senusret the Third, one of the greatest Pharaohs of Ancient Egypt," Wadjet said. "He was a brilliant strategist and military leader. A good _man_, strong in character, who cared greatly for the nation he lead. I designed his true burial ground to reflect that." She gestured at golden armor arranged along the walls, and spears and small swords arranged alongside. It was like an army at rest, waiting for the ancient king to be reborn to lead them into battle again.

The three of them moved forward, their grief forgotten in wonder. Coins clinked and sang beneath their feet, their wand-lights casting reflections everywhere, the entire room seeming to blaze with golden fire. Wadjet watched them carefully as they moved around the room. Canopic jars were arranged around the sarcophagi, but they all knew better than to touch them. Hermione stared at some inscriptions on Senusret's tomb, as if committing them to memory. Bill stood quietly and patiently, while Ron just stared at the treasure around him.

The ancient witch gestured. "If you like, I will allow you each to take a small item from the treasure. Some of this was originally mine, donated to a Pharaoh whom I greatly admired. He will not miss it. Your hearts are heavy, and I know trinkets cannot replace what you've lost. But this became Jasmine's homeland, and you are welcome to bring a piece of it with you when you leave."

Her words were solemn and sympathetic. The young ones looked to Bill for permission, and he nodded. "Only if you want to," he said.

The ancient watched them as they slowly, reluctantly perused the treasures. Bill picked up a small pendant with a bird inscribed upon it for Fleur. He saw Ron slip a ring into his pocket when Hermione was turned away. And meanwhile, the young woman looked down sadly at a tiny golden statue of a cat.

"Not that one." They all looked up as Wadjet quietly spoke. She reached out and plucked the little cat from Hermione's hand, tossing it back into the pile. The ancient witch held out a hand, and a bit of treasure leaped into her palm with a tinkle. She placed the piece in Hermione's palm. "This is the one she would select for you."

Hermione gasped, and Bill leaned over to see. The piece was a pendant like the one he held, but rather than a bird it represented a piece of parchment, tiny etchings showing the curl of pages and tiny text. It was as if someone had plucked a scroll from an owl and dipped it in liquid gold. Bill doubted there was a finer piece to be given to the bookish witch.

Hermione seemed to agree, more tears forming in her eyes. She looked at that shadowed face, mouth working silently for a moment. "Thank you," she said.

"Don't thank me," Wadjet replied. "You are owed much more." The ancient turned and walked to the other side of the room, climbing a small ramp that lead to the sarcophagus at the end of the room.

"Hermione?" Bill asked. She was staring at the pendant, but not seeing it; her gaze turned inward as she thought. At his unspoken question she looked at him and shook her head. Her face was slightly pale.

He knew better than to press her, so he moved up to where Wadjet stood. The witch had opened the rear wall somehow, and another tunnel stretched beyond.

"The dangers beyond here are not of my making, which means I cannot control them," she advised. "Dangerous vermin are attracted by magic and the dead. Keep your wands out and your senses sharp."

"Scarabs?" Bill asked.

"Or worse," she confirmed.

"Scarabs?" Ron asked nervously as they followed her into the tunnel.

"Magical scarabs," Bill clarified. "Bugs the size of your fist. They like the taste of magical creatures… that includes wizards." Ron whimpered.

The tunnel beneath the desert seemed to stretch on forever. They walked for near an hour, passing through small natural chambers in the rock. On several occasions they were forced to pause as Wadjet cleared away a tunnel collapse, waving her staff and reforming the rock with effortless power. Bill fell back into the rear position, guarding, while Ron and Hermione advanced behind the ancient witch, their wands held at the ready.

Eventually they came upon a large chamber, the ceiling of it stretching beyond the meagre light of their wands. The floor was rough and uneven, and even the walls were jagged and threatening. There was a strong chill in the air… too strong to be natural.

"Does everyone feel that?" Hermione prompted.

"Yes. Get ready," Wadjet said. She lifted her staff, and it burst into light, far stronger than the light produced by their wands. The new illumination showed a chamber easily the size of a Quidditch pitch, the roof far above their heads.

And nesting there, rousing into motion, was a cluster of dementors.

Bill reacted instinctively. "_Expecto Patronum!_" The wolf that was his patronus ever since his encounter with Fenrir Greyback surged into being. Hermione's otter appeared soon afterward, but the silver creature was faded and weak with the emotional upsets of the day, and it was testament to Hermione's strength of will that she could manifest it at all. Ron was less lucky, merely managing to spray out a silver mist as he struggled to find a happy memory that wasn't connected to his lost friend.

"Ron-"

"I'm _trying!_"

Wadjet danced back into the safety afforded by Bill's wolf, unable or unwilling to cast her own patronus. The dementors were roused to fury, swooping down at them. The wolf's presence was painful to them, but they'd obviously been without a meal for a very long time, and the souls of the four were too enticing for them to ignore. They pushed and dove, and Bill struggled to direct his patronus in front of their attacks. Hermione's otter helped as it could, but was too weak to do much. Ron directed his silver spray at the vile creatures attacking from above.

They were fading. They'd lost too much, and the dementors were pulling that horrible memory forward, weakening them even more. Ron collapsed to his knees, sobbing, and Hermione struggled to stand beside him, pulling her otter close. A dementor managed to use the opening to swoop at Bill from behind, knocking him down, his blood seeming to freeze in his veins. His wolf faded away, and they were left with only the meagre protection of Hermione's weakened otter.

The dementor on him was undeterred, and Bill rolled over to see it practically upon him. He struggled to re-cast his patronus as it lowered its face toward his, its fetid breath brushing over his skin.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" cried Wadjet, and the entire chamber burst with bright, silvery light. The dementor on Bill reeled back with a hissing screech of pain. Warm, hopeful feelings washed over him, and he knew he'd be okay. The dementor fled to the roof along with rest, the swarm of them clustering together to let their combined auras of despair fend off the holy light.

He sat up, and Wadjet's patronus filled his vision. It was a stag, easily twice as tall as Wadjet herself. Its antlers were huge, counting twenty points at the least. The creature was so bright and solid that Bill was certain he could touch it. Ron and Hermione stared at it with wonder, and Bill saw his future sister-in-law set her mouth with an expression of certainty, face lit with joy.

"That-" Ron started.

"Yes, yes, yes," Wadjet's stern voice answered impatiently, "size _does_ matter. Get up! Move!"

Bill helped Hermione haul his brother to his feet, and they dashed toward the end of the chamber. Even Wadjet was running, her robes flapping behind her and exposing dainty feet in leather thongs. The huge stag cantered around them, and the dementors were unable to come anywhere near, repulsed by the blinding aura of hope.

The stag was too big to enter the opposite tunnel with them. They left it behind, Wadjet collapsing the tunnel and sealing the dementors on the other side. For a brief moment they were lost in darkness, until Wadjet re-summoned her werelight.

They paused a moment to recover their breath, Ron leaning against the tunnel wall. Bill himself was trying not to think about how close he'd come to losing his soul. Meanwhile, Hermione had fixed Wadjet with a steady, resolute stare.

The ancient witch noticed the scrutiny. "What? What is it?"

"You can take your hood off now, Jasmine," Hermione said, firmly but kindly.

Even Ron's tired panting halted suddenly. "_What_ did you call me?" Wadjet asked, her voice near a whisper.

"You have a scar on your wrist," Hermione stated. "I saw it when you handed me the pendant. Do you remember how you got it?"

"What does that have to do-"

The young witch stepped forward, all fear gone. "_You_ got it when Peter Pettigrew bound you to a gravestone, and cut you to gather blood for Voldemort's resurrection ritual. '_Blood of the enemy, forcefully taken_.'" The ancient witch's arm twitched, resisting the urge to look. "I'm willing to bet you have tiny scars on your hand, from Umbridge's Blood Quill. And how about your face? Do you have a lightning bolt scar on your forehead?"

"You have suffered a loss, and I understand your desire to avoid confronting it, but-"

"Why are you _hiding_ from us, Jasmine?" Hermione demanded.

"Hiding? _Hiding?_" Wadjet snarled. She advanced on the younger witch, her staff rapping the ground, and though Hermione was intimidated, she did not yield. "Shall we speak of names? He calls me Wadjet, but I have had many titles. One more familiar to you would be _Morgan le Fay_." Shock rippled across their little group at that name. The cloaked head turned to regard Bill, who jumped at the scrutiny. "Yes, boy, I am she. And I know your employers seek me, and it isn't to offer banking services!"

She turned back to Hermione. "And you ask me to bare my face to be conveniently placed in a pensieve later? All based on your _suspicions_?"

As the white-robed witch turned away, Hermione squared her shoulders and stepped forward boldly. "Jasmine was _family_ to all of us. She was practically a Weasley, and the Weasleys always put family first. Bill won't betray family." Bill felt pride at Hermione's words, even as fear and hope warred within him.

The powerful witch had stopped, facing away, as Hermione spoke. After a moment the cloaked head turned back to them. "You would be better to accept your loss and move on," she said over her shoulder, though her voice was less cold.

"Jasmine would never give up on us," Hermione replied. "I think she still hasn't. She'd never lie to _me_, and I think she still hasn't." She took a hesitant step toward the other witch. "If you're not Jasmine, if you don't want to _show_ us, then just say it. Say it out loud, and I'll believe you."

The silence drew out. Finally it was broken with a soft, resigned sigh.

Wadjet's free arm rose and tugged on the hood of her cloak, revealing long, black hair tied back in a braid. She turned around, the werelight on her staff briefly blinding them as it passed in front of her face. Bill heard Ron pull in a shocked breath to match his own, but Hermione simply stared straight ahead, unsurprised.

The contrast from their friend could not have been more plain... although it was, unquestionably, Jasmine. Her face was more refined, yet she had obviously gained a healthy amount of weight. Ever since the end of the war, Hermione had joined forces with Molly and Ginny to try to convince their friend to get up to a more healthy "BMI" (she'd had had to explain the acronym to all of them). Bill had always thought Jasmine was too thin; when Ron had pulled him aside and gently explained the neglect of the Dursleys, he'd been appalled. When Bill had seen her after months of hiding during the war, she'd been so malnourished and frail that he'd wondered how she was even able to stand upright.

But _this_ Jasmine… it was the outcome his mother couldn't have hoped for. She shone with health, much of it unquestionably muscle, and with that came beauty that had always hidden behind Jasmine's hard life and self-effacing ways. _This_ woman was obviously aware of it; the round, ungainly spectacles she had worn since childhood were gone, and she wore makeup, which the Girl-Who-Lived had never touched in her life. Kohl applied with an expert hand lined her eyes, making them seem even bigger and more exotic, bringing that beauty even further forward.

It was those eyes that showed the greatest difference. Jasmine's had been bright, though tired… always vaguely confused and careworn by the weights put upon her. The emerald gaze that rested upon Hermione was cold, calculating. With an uncomfortable feeling in his gut, Bill thought that gaze reminded him far more of Severus Snape than the innocent, bewildered girl his brother had brought home to be adopted into their family.

"Jasmine-" Ron started forward, but she took a quick step backwards, raising a hand. He halted, confused.

"I think we should be concentrating on getting out of here, yes?"

"What? Jas… we thought we lost you! How- _when_ did you get back?"

"Ron-" Hermione lifted a hand to stall her fiance. She raised her eyes to Bill pleadingly, and suddenly it clicked.

The younger redhead's face was twisted with confusion and betrayal. "Damn it, what are you playing at? Why would you hide from _us_?"

A time-turner, even if they still existed, wasn't enough to account for the differences. How could she be in two places at once… with him and with the others? She _couldn't_. How did she become so powerful so quickly? She _didn't_. The fear Bill felt earlier congealed into a lead ball in his stomach.

Jasmine - this _new_ Jasmine - looked at him as they locked gazes. He reached out to lay a hand on Ron's shoulder, but his brother just shook it off.

"Why won't you answer? What are you _doing_, Jas?"

"_This_ is a pretty good reason why I wanted to wait to do this," Jasmine declared imperiously, her tone shocking the redhead silent in mid-rant.

"Ron, she _didn't_ come back," Hermione headed him off before he could continue.

"What? 'Mione, she's right here-"

"Yes, but she didn't 'come back'. Not the way you think. She closed the loop." All triumph was gone from Hermione's voice, and Bill knew she was feeling the same as he.

Ron shook his head, still confused.

"What she means, _Ronald_," Jasmine added, and there was scorn in her voice that even Bill, who had less contact than the others with the Girl-Who-Lived, _knew_ didn't belong there, "is that I took the _slow way_ around. I was thrown back into the ancient past. And there was no way forward, except to live every moment."

"Wha- How? How could you do that? That'd make you…"

"Five thousand years old, yes, we went over this before. But I did it. When I realized I wasn't aging, I waited. Waited, so that I could be _here_, be able to make sure that you make it out of this tomb, that _I _built, safely!" She advanced on him, sneering, suddenly _scary_ in a way that was very un-Jasmine-like. "And now, after all that time, here I stand… _growing old!_"

She spun, robes billowing around her in a way worthy of Snape. "Move, or I leave you here!"

They looked at each other and scrambled to follow.

* * *

Hermione walked quickly to catch up to her friend, but stayed two steps behind, watching carefully.

Jasmine even _walked_ differently now. Her friend had always been a bit of a tomboy, and she'd walked like one… when she wasn't creeping about, trying to avoid notice, she would stomp around in a way not unlike Ron... much to the chagrin of Lavender, who had resolved to feminize the girl. But now she floated across the floor like the robes she wore, all confidence and grace. And why shouldn't she have confidence? The magic she'd demonstrated already had awed the young witch.

She had so many questions! To see… to _experience_ so much! And yet, Hermione had to remind herself, she'd done it _alone_.

They'd been best friends since first year. For all those years, through all the tragedy and adventure, they'd been together... as close as sisters. They sometimes slept in each other's beds in the Gryffindor girl's dorm. In her childish idealism, Hermione had once begged her parents to adopt the mistreated orphan, so they could be sisters by law and not just by choice. The entire trip to Egypt had been part of Hermione's desire to tell the girl that her coming marriage to Ron wouldn't split them but rather draw them together.

In the space of an hour, she'd lost her best friend and gotten her back. And now there was a huge gulf between them, and Hermione didn't understand it... and she _hated_ not understanding things.

Jasmine set a grueling march, which Bill and Ron kept up with easily; but Hermione wasn't the athlete the other three were, and soon her legs were burning. They entered another chamber, this one smaller than the previous, the ground soft with sand, and other smaller chambers branched off in all directions.

"Jas… Jasmine," Hermione panted; the name seemed to anger the other witch, and the pace actually increased. "Jasmine, is it much further?" she pleaded.

The white robed figure ground to a halt. Hermione braced herself, worried that she'd be berated for weakness; not that the other girl would ever do that _before_, but she didn't know where she stood now.

Jasmine looked around. "Draw your wands," she command.

"What is it?" Bill asked.

"More dementors?" Hermione asked nervously.

"No… scarabs."

Bill tensed and lifted his wand. Ron twitched left and right, a spell hovering on his lips, not looking forward to the huge predatory beetles any more than he'd welcome spiders.

The first of the creatures scuttled out of a side chamber… Bill killed it with a simple reductor. But then two more appeared, and more, and more, until all four of them were blasting spells in all directions.

It was like a black tide of flat, chittering insects, flowing out of the nearby caves and sometimes out of the ground itself. One burst up out of the sand to sink its pincers into Hermione's boot; she screamed more with surprise than pain, and crushed it with her heel. They killed dozens, soaking the sand with insectile fluids; Hermione could blast two or three at a time with a well-aimed reductor, and Jasmine threw spells of such power that the brown-haired witch worried about the ceiling coming down on them. But more and more of the rat-sized insects boiled out into the open, and it was becoming apparent that they were being slowly overwhelmed.

"Everyone, get down!" Hermione barely had a chance to react when a _summoning_ charm of all things sent them tumbling to Jasmine's feet.

The witch swung her staff over her head, and the room exploded into flame. The fire washed around them in a torrent, and Hermione could see the shapes of snakes, vultures, and even wolves running and diving through the inferno as if they were dolphins in the ocean.

_She cast Fiendfyre,_ she thought with awe. Then gibbering terror: _she cast Fiendfyre! We're in an enclosed space!_

If Jasmine knew the danger, she didn't show it. Her staff continued to circle above her head as if stirring the air, and the firestorm roiled around them. The scarabs squealed insectile shrieks as they burned, popping and crackling as their fluids boiled. The air in the eye of the storm was like an oven, and Hermione swore she could feel her skin crisping. Ron pulled her close and tucked her head against his chest, Bill trying to cover them both.

The flames continued until Hermione felt like she was about to pass out; then Jasmine jerked her staff down, working her free hand into the incantation. The fires gathered in front of her, merging into a huge snake that coiled into itself and _hissed_ its malevolence with a gust of superheated air. Just as it moved to strike at them, Jasmine swung her staff down as though to clout it on the head; the flame snake was smashed to the ground, then split into two. The gouts of fire fizzled out with a frustrated pop.

The sound of sizzling persisted. But no more scarabs attacked, and Hermione could see the reason for that was because the walls and the sand on the ground had _melted_ into a solid sheet of molten glass.

"Vile pests," Jasmine muttered, in much the same way as Molly would complain about the gnomes in her garden.

The three others met eyes, sharing looks of awe and fear. Lacking anything better to say or do, Hermione cast cooling charms on the glass around them. After a few spells, the glass was cool enough that they could step onto it without their boots melting.

"Jasmine-" Hermione asked hesitantly; but the other witch was already moving, striding forward as if the terrifying ambush hadn't just happened. Hermione abandoned the attempt and simply followed.

Within five minutes they came to a flat face of stone. Once again Jasmine tapped it with her staff, and the wall slid into the ground. Hot air and bright light washed across them as they stepped back into the daylight.

They were outside was looked like a rock outcropping, thrust up out of the sands like a fist. The noon sun was high in the sky, but Hermione felt it would be unfair to complain about that after nearly being trapped underground. She slid to her bottom, resting her back against the rock, covering her eyes against the glare with her forearm. Ron kneeled beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder; she reached up and gave it a fond squeeze. Beside them Bill was pulling off his pack, reaching in to reclaim his hat. It was a smart idea; she should probably do the same.

"Your camp is about a half-hour's walk in that direction," Jasmine said, pointing. "A Four-Point spell will guide you, there are no wards against it."

Hermione was about to question her wording, '_your_ camp', when the raven-haired witch suddenly began walking, and definitely not in the direction of the camp. She scrambled to her feet. "Jas, what-"

The sand around the white-robed figure burst upward, like a wave crashing against rock. The three reeled away, and when the grains settled, their friend was gone. The three of them stared at the empty spot and then at each other, mouths hanging open in the parched desert air.

Ron was the first to find his voice. "Did she _leave_? Did she just _ditch us_ here?"

Hermione sank back down, arms wrapped around her knees, near tears. Suddenly, she could believe there was five thousand years between herself and her dearest friend.


	2. Auld Lang Syne

It was a glum and shrunken group that returned to the Burrow two days later. The instant Ron stepped out of the floo he dumped their gear carelessly on the ground, ignoring the indignant squawk of his mother. He grabbed another handful of powder and flung it into the fire. "Jasmine's Flat!" he shouted, and he was gone.

Molly was had opened her mouth to complain, but at the look on Hermione and Bill's face she stopped. She could tell something was very wrong. "Bill, Hermione, what-" She paused. "Where's Jasmine?"

Hermione couldn't bring herself to speak. Bill stepped forward. "Mum, something happened in Egypt-"

He was interrupted as the fireplace flared and Ron stepped out, his face contorted in anger. "She's gone! Her entire flat is empty!" Hermione had feared that would be the case, and she burst into tears, the latest of many on their journey home.

"Bill, Ron… what do you mean her flat is empty?" Molly demanded. "What happened to Jasmine? Where is she?"

"She's _gone_. She ditched us!" Ron raged. Molly looked at Bill, confused.

He stepped forward, reaching for her. "Mum, you'll need to sit down. This will take some explaining."

* * *

Over the next few days they checked every possible location they could think of. They checked Hogwarts, Grimmauld Place, and even Privet Drive, a visit that resulted in Hermione hexing Vernon with a Leadfoot hex. Nobody had seen the Girl-Who-Won, and people would definitely notice her. Hermione thought that Jasmine's high recognition meant she was unlikely to be found in the wizarding world.

Bill asked Fleur to keep an eye on the Potter vaults, though the French witch didn't understand why; after a week, she reported no withdrawals of any kind. Monitoring charms placed on Jasmine's flat reported nothing. After two weeks, they were forced to acknowledge that Jasmine couldn't be found unless she wanted to be.

Her disappearance greatly upset Molly, which angered Ron even further, to the point where he loudly declared he didn't care if the "scar-headed tart" ever came back. That comment earned him a fierce dressing-down from both his mother and his fiancee. And later that night at the flat that Hermione and Ron shared, she found him sitting on the couch... staring sadly at Jasmine's Firebolt, tucked in the corner where she'd left it the week before the ill-fated trip.

Bill had to return to work soon after their return, to give a report to the goblins. He promised them both that he wouldn't mention seeing anyone other than themselves and Jasmine… easily done, since it was the truth. He explained that the goblins truly, deeply, hated Morgana, which Hermione had heard or read, but not really grasped as something relevant before. He didn't explain the whys of it, but did say that connecting Jasmine and Morgana _or_ Wadjet was not something he was willing to do. So he'd stay silent, and was confident that the amount of treasure they'd found would likely interest his employers far more than any details about how they'd found it.

So, too, did Ron need to return to his position as an Auror trainee. And Hermione, who was just beginning the study for her Charms mastery certification, was left home alone… unable to study, her mind occupied with worry and speculation.

It was on the fourth day of this that she finally snapped and could take no more. Lighting the small fireplace in the flat, she flung in some floo powder.

"Hogwarts Headmistress' Office!" She stuck her head into the green flames, seeing Headmistress McGonagall sitting at the desk once occupied by the late Albus Dumbledore.

The stern-faced instructor looked surprised. "Miss Granger! It's pleasant to see you, though unexpected. Is everything alright? What did you need?"

"Hello, Professor!" she greeted. "I'm… well, I'm stuck in my studies for my mastery, and getting quite frustrated. I was hoping to visit the Hogwarts library and perhaps find some inspiration. With your permission, of course. May I visit?"

"Of course, my dear. Come on through."

Hermione nodded and stepped through into the office. On the other side she drew her wand and cleaned away the ash, and then transfigured her muggle jumper and jeans into Hogwarts-style robes. The act brought the small pressing of the lips that was the equivalent of a pleased smile from the former Transfiguration professor.

McGonagall had stood, stepping around the large headmaster's desk and the unenviable amount of paperwork stacked upon it. She was as prim and stern as ever, but she smiled as she looked upon one of her favourite students. "We're in the final exam period, I'm sure I don't need to remind you," she said. "Were you anyone else I would have said no. But I know I can trust you to be on your best behaviour, and perhaps it might inspire the students to see you."

Hermione blushed. "Of course, Professor. Thank you ever so much."

"If you're still here at lunch, come see me. We can share tea and sandwiches in the office here. The elves will be excited to cook for you again."

The young woman nodded with gratitude. Receiving a library pass from the Headmistress, she thanked her again and left the office, letting her feet take her on their own to the one place she knew how to get to from anywhere in the castle: the library.

Classes were still in progress, so she passed few students in the hallways. As she and a tiny first-year made way for each other, she had a moment to think about how ridiculously young the little girl seemed; and that brought to mind the reason she was visiting, and a grim feeling overcame her.

As usual, the Hogwarts library was a balm. She showed her pass to Madam Pince, ignoring the witch's scowl at the graduated student's intrusion in her domain. And then she was pleasantly buried in books, in a section of the library she'd rarely had reason to intrude upon: History.

She decided to start with researching Wadjet. There was a great deal written about the witch, but most of it was repetitive. The books agreed that Wadjet was a powerful Egyptian witch, who had done a great deal to advance the progress of magic in ancient times. The witch was responsible for building and warding the true tombs within Egypt, while the muggle slaves were left to construct the grand, decoy temples. The books that were more honest didn't gloss over the fact that she did this while serving the muggle Pharaohs.

Hermione was surprised to learn that Wadjet was responsible for the basis of the Fidelius Charm, which was refined over the millennia into the extremely powerful ward it was today. In fact, the witch was credited with the basic versions of a large number of spells in common use in the modern magical world. Hermione pursed her lips, thinking it likely that Jasmine had simply reverse-engineered the spells she already knew. While not as impressive as inventing them from scratch, it was no small feat, considering her friend's struggles in arithmancy.

Wadjet's contributions to Egypt were traced back to even before the unification of the country, before the first pharaoh. She felt light-headed at that… the unification of Egypt had occurred around 3200 BC, which meant Jasmine had arrived even earlier, in a period of time that could only be described as pre-historic.

Her friend was ancient, in a way that Hermione could barely grasp.

The books did little to touch on this, despite the fact that Wadjet was known to be active all the way up to roughly 1800 BC, a stretch of nearly two thousand years. Most of the books concluded, as Bill had mentioned, that 'Wadjet' was more of a title than a name, passed down from witch to witch or perhaps even mother to daughter. One book was bold enough to suggest that perhaps Wadjet had possessed an early version of the Elixir of Life.

She frowned. There'd been no time or opportunity to ask Jasmine _how_ she'd survived so long. She looked barely older than when she'd been sent back, although it was hard to tell with the makeup and improved nutrition. The Elixir of Life? Maybe, though she would have had to have developed it almost immediately upon being thrown back, unless she was dying her hair. The Elixir could return youthful features, but the hair would go grey. Well, she assumed such; Flamel and his wife weren't much of a sample base.

What other options were there? A horcrux?

Hermione shivered. No… no matter how cold Jasmine had been, no matter how much time separated them… she refused to believe her friend would indulge in something so dark.

The sources on Wadjet exhausted, Hermione generalized her search. There was little to be found under the heading "immortal witches", of course. And though wizarding society tended to be far more gender-equal than muggle society until recently, a simple search for famous magical _women_ rarely turned up much. There were allusions to a witch that assisted in the development of the Mind Arts in India at roughly the same time Wadjet was active; Hermione would have dismissed it, but she knew a witch could cover a great amount of distance very quickly with Apparition. There were hints about a witch mistaken for goddess in Crete; and in the Foreign History section she found a tiny mention - barely a footnote - about a strange, round-eyed woman in China around 500 BC who often acted as an advisor to the Qin emperors. None of the accounts ever mentioned a name, and many dismissed the sightings as muggle delusions.

Afterward the only hint of her friend was a quiet note about a witch that the Roman General Crassus had tried to forcibly recruit into his magical contingent before the Battle of Carrhae… the attempt backfired spectacularly, costing Crassus almost every single one of his wizards and subsequently the battle at Carrhae itself. The account seemed to say that the witch in question had also been killed during the confrontation, so Hermione was unsure whether it had been Jasmine or not. For centuries after that, she found nothing… until the arrival of Merlin, and with him the witch named _Muirgen_, a name that over time had shifted into 'Morgan', and much later 'Morgana'.

It was difficult to find books that were properly neutral on the subject… the wizarding world nearly deified Merlin, and anything around him tended to be lost in the glare. The more level-headed books didn't tell Hermione anything more than she already knew… that Morgana had emerged at roughly the same time as Merlin himself, but the wizard lead the way. Quite unlike modern muggle stories, which alternately depicted Morgana as a tragic figure or as the evil instrument of Merlin's downfall, wizarding history simply viewed Morgana as the teacher of Merlin, the master lost in the shadow of her student, sometimes conflated with the witch known as Nimue.

While Merlin strode across Europe changing the magical world, inspiring wizards and witches everywhere, Morgana stayed in the shadows. Some books depicted her as Merlin's mother… others as his wife. All agreed that there was love and respect between the two, and when Merlin was treacherously struck down by Morgause and her son Mordred, it was Morgana who emerged to claim vengeance. After that she retreated back into the shadows, and sightings of the witch were spotty and almost entirely apocryphal.

There were hints that she was present at the founding of Hogwarts itself, perhaps as the unnamed fifth 'wizard' who helped architect the castle. Another speculative account placed her near Hogsmeade during the first Goblin Rebellion. After that, there was a single, sensationalized telling of Morgana appearing in front of the Wizengamot in 1620, whereupon she'd given a rather harsh rebuke to the entire body on some unspecified matter. After that, she simply disappeared... and the wizarding government, which didn't take criticism well even in modern times, tried to forget the incident ever happened.

Bread crumbs, scattered through history; the connections only made sense if you _knew_ what you were looking for. Hermione was appalled to find that perhaps the most useful book she could find about the connection between Wadjet and Morgana was a book written by Edwin Grint. The man was considered a kook even among wizards, easily on par with Xenophilius Lovegood, and she was embarrassed to be seen even holding a book written by the man.

Hours later she looked up, her neck aching; a quiet _Tempus_ revealed that she'd missed lunch by far, as it was late afternoon… that explained her grumbling belly. She looked at the stacks of books scattered around her and raised an eyebrow; she hadn't hit the books this hard since her sixth year. It was satisfying, to be honest, harkening back to happier times.

She quietly gathered up the books and moved them to the cart to be re-shelved, ignoring the looks she received from the students who were curious about the famous graduate returned to her old haunt. She left the library, nodding politely at Madam Pince who, as always, seemed relieved to have one less person in her precious library.

She wandered the halls a bit, in the general direction of the Headmaster's Office. She wondered if it was too late to share a small meal with McGonagall… perhaps the Headmistress could be convinced to sit down for some tea and scones, at least. Though that, Hermione thought with trepidation, would likely force her to field some questions from their former professor about Ron and Jasmine. But maybe she could pose some questions in return… McGonagall was Scottish, and despite the name, Morgana was thought to be Scottish as well.

Hermione suddenly halted, causing a couple of students to run into her in the suddenly crowded hallway as classes finished up. She apologized, blushing at their scowls. She turned and walked back the way she came, headed to the fourth floor.

Why question the former Transfiguration professor, when the History of Magic professor was handy? The professor who was centuries old himself, and droned on almost _constantly_ about the Goblin Rebellions?

Binn's office was where it had been for centuries, near the History of Magic classroom on the fourth floor. For a moment she hesitated, realizing that Professor Binns was the one Hogwarts professor she'd never visited outside of class. She knocked on the door and waited.

She had to swallow a screech a second later as, instead of opening the door, Binns merely poked his head through the wood. The ghost seemed as confused as he stared at her, blinking.

"Miss Grant?" he asked slowly, as if just remembering. "Do you require some assistance with your homework?" He asked the question like it was a new, amazing concept.

Hermione filed his misconception of her status as a student under the same "waste of time" category as trying to correct his idea of her name. Instead, she decided to just roll with it. "Um… not exactly, sir. I'm doing an extra-credit report, and I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions?" His head was already receding back into the door as the ghost lost interest, so she raised her voice. "It's on Morgana and the Goblin Rebellions!"

He halted, eyes wide, and Hermione could swear she actually saw the real animation in his face that had been there in… well, ever. "Is it? That's a very good subject, Miss Grant. Come in." His head pulled back and disappeared. Hermione waited for the door to open. After a moment it became obvious that it wouldn't. Rolling her eyes, she drew her wand and opened it with an unlocking charm.

The inside of Binn's office was dusty and cobwebbed. It was obvious that no living being had stepped inside the small room in years, if not decades. Books were set on small shelves behind the desk, and they hadn't moved in memory. Binns sat - if a ghost could truly 'sit' - in the chair behind the desk, which was rotted and rickety. If the man had been corporeal, he would have fallen right through it.

"Come, sit, Miss Grant. I'll answer your questions as best I can."

Hermione looked at the chair in front of the desk dubiously; it looked solid enough, but filthy. Hoping it wouldn't offend Binns, she cast a quiet cleaning charm. He didn't react, and though the top layer of dust and dirt was removed, she resolved to give her clothes a full cleaning later as she sank into the creaky seat.

Binns had set his ghostly notebook - and how did _that_ work, anyway? - onto his desk. He steepled his hands and leaned forward, not noticing that it caused his chest to actually sink into the front of the desk. He had a vaguely bewildered look on his face, as if he'd never had a student visit his office before and wasn't quite sure what to do. Hermione supposed that he probably hadn't.

"Now, you had questions about the Goblin Rebellions?" he prompted.

"With regards to Morgana, yes sir," she said, trying to make sure he wouldn't fall into his normal rut. "I've found mention in the library that she may have been involved with the Battle of Hogsmeade, though not directly… I was hoping you could expand upon that."

"Oh, of course. She was, as you read, present at the battle, but not within the town itself. Fifteen wizards and witches were within the town, as we've covered in class before, and they were the ones responsible for re-taking Hogsmeade and defeating the goblins within. But the goblins in the town were not the only ones present… the entire attack was an elaborate trap, intended to draw out defending wizards and pin them within the town for yet another assault." Binns spoke in the same droning voice with which he presented all information, but Hermione didn't feel the drowsiness she had fought so long and often in his class. "Indeed, outside of Hogsmeade, in the valley leading to the town, camped a contingent of near five hundred goblins. Had their plan succeeded, they would have wiped Hogsmeade clean again, and likely repeated the tactic as often as they could get away with."

"But someone interfered?"

"Of course. A witch appeared in the town, somehow bypassing the anti-portkey and anti-apparition wards the goblins had erected. She did not take part in the battle planning… on the contrary, she instructed those present to do exactly as they would were the advancing army not present, and she would make it so. Then she left."

"Did the witnesses describe her?"

"Not in a useful fashion. She was said to be clad in simple robes, bearing a staff rather than a wand. Her face was cloaked, both with her hood and with magic. The witnesses, as you might imagine, were primarily concerned with the hundred or so goblins that still occupied the town itself. Only later, after the battle, would they mention lights and spellfire coming from the valley. When others were sent to scout the area, they apparently found wide devastation… the earth cracked, trees uprooted or burned to ash, and the remains of the goblins."

Hermione swallowed, trying not to think of her own memories of the battle inside and outside the school two years ago. "But the woman didn't identify herself? How do we even know it was Morgana?"

"We didn't… not at the time. We could only speculate."

She blinked. "I'm… surprised, sir. You don't strike me as a person inclined toward speculation, only facts."

He seemed to take that as a compliment, either not remembering or not caring about his own comments during the Chamber of Secrets incident. "Of course not. But, nearly eight years after the battle, the same woman returned and bullied her way into the Wizengamot to speak. She was recognized by those present - who included some of the defenders of Hogsmeade, moved on to successful political careers - primarily by her staff. And it was there that she laid claim to the name Morgana… of course, at the time, it was pronounced merely 'Morgan'."

He leaned back, and Hermione was fascinated by the wistfulness she saw in his face. "My grandfather was present at that Wizengamot… he told me that Morgan spoke with great force, berating the members present. She spoke against the ignorance of the wizards, and the marginalization of the goblins after their surrender."

"So she was speaking _for_ the goblins?"

"Oh, not at all," Binns replied, and he almost seemed happy. "She spoke against the notion that the goblins were beaten. She claimed that the goblins had their own standards of honour, standards that did not much our own. While they might follow the letter of a surrender, they would not follow the spirit. They were _waiting_, she said, simply for the wizarding world to contravene those standards, whereupon they could justify to _themselves_ the march to war. As such, she claimed that the various acts against the goblins, restricting their movements and so on, were simply playing into their hands. The Wizengamot dismissed her concerns, and she left angrily. As time would tell, of course, she was proven correct."

"Where did she go after that?"

"No one knows. Some say she left for China, or maybe the Americas. But of course-"

"-that's speculation, not fact." Binns nodded, pleased. "Do you know of any books this is described in? The library was lacking the details you provided."

"Oh… of course. I believe _Wizendummies_ by Olaf Skeeter is the book you want." Hermione nodded, trying to resist rolling her eyes at the title. She hesitated as he did. "Or… hmm. I believe I have a copy here." The ghost stood and looked at the books behind him. "I do!" he said, and his voice was wonderous. He lifted a tome off the shelf and handed it to her. She took it gently, mindful of the pages barely holding together.

"Thank you, sir. I'll try to return it quickly."

"Before you leave for Hogsmeade, if you wouldn't mind."

Hermione nodded. Standing, she paused. "Sir, do you believe Morgana - er, Morgan - was a thousand years old?"

He shook his spectral head. "Oh, no, of course not. Morgan is obviously a name passed from mother to daughter, or master to apprentice. The idea of a witch living that long is ludicrous."

"Of course, sir. Thank you." She left, leaving the baffled and elated ghost behind her.

The halls were empty... she guessed that supper was on at the Great Hall. She carefully flipped through the book Binns had given her as she walked; it was faded and barely holding together. She hoped he wouldn't mind if she used some repair spells on it.

Like so many times before, she heard the Great Hall before she saw it... the clinking of cutlery against plates, laughter, and at this time of year the sound of students elated over finished exams, and those that were panicking over exams to come. The doors were opened wide as she came down the stairs, and she smiled, seeing healthy, happy faces filling the school once more. She knew that Ron hated coming back to Hogwarts… the happy memories here couldn't possibly outweigh the loss of his brother and so many friends. Hermione thought differently… the school was a refuge. Yes, evil had managed to push its way in, but just as surely they'd pushed it back out.

She wondered what Jasmine thought of Hogwarts now.

A few students watched her as she walked up the center of the hall toward the staff table, but most were intent on their food or their studying. McGonagall lifted her chin as she approached, giving her a small, friendly smile. "You missed lunch," she commented.

It was so much like old times… her head of house had needed to remind her often not to neglect basic needs while studying. Hermione laughed. "I'm so sorry… I got caught up in the library."

"You needn't apologize, I had a feeling you would. Can you stay for supper?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. Ron will be home soon, and though he can cook for himself, I'd really, really rather he didn't." McGonagall didn't laugh outright, but her eyes twinkled in amusement in a very Dumbledore-like manner.

"Well, then. Feel free to use the floo in my office… the password is 'strathspey'. I do hope you'll visit again soon so we can have that lunch. And if Mister Weasley is willing, bring him along."

"Yes, professor, I'll try to talk him into it."

"And how is Miss Potter? Can I look forward to a visit from her as well?"

Hermione hesitated. "I hope so, professor," she replied honestly.

* * *

If Ron noticed her absence during the day, he didn't comment on it. Her fiance had settled into a kind of listlessness which saddened her. Later that night as they lay in bed, the book on her lap as she carefully applied charms to re-bind the pages - some were too far gone, and would need a binding potion - she paused to look at her partner, who held a Quidditch magazine but wasn't really looking at it.

"She's going to come back, you know," she said.

He looked up, not needing to ask who she was referring to. "How can you know that?"

"Because that's what she does. She _always_ comes back. Just like you." She reached out and squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back, and then folded his magazine and tossed in on the floor on his side of the bed. He'd slip on it tomorrow, she was sure of it, but for the moment she let it slide. Instead, she let him slip an arm across her waist as he snuggled into her side.

She hoped she wasn't lying to him.

* * *

It was nearly three months later before they received a sign of their friend, and the sign didn't come in the manner they expected.

The Weasleys had all settled into a kind of sad confusion. They all knew the basic details, but the close-knit clan had a hard time grasping the idea of running away from family. But there was nothing they could do nor say to change things, so they just went onward as best they could. Ron continued with his Auror training, and Hermione split her time between working on her mastery and planning the wedding, which was just a few months away. She tried not to dwell on the fact that her best friend and maid of honour might not be attending.

Annoyingly, the wizarding press had noticed Jasmine's absence. They'd kept close tabs on the Girl-Who-Won after the war, although with no more dark lords lining up to be defeated and Jasmine almost becoming a homebody after graduating, there wasn't much they could say that wasn't repetitive. But suddenly disappearing with no sign to be seen, even when Ron and Hermione went shopping, had raised an eyebrow or two. Speculation was rampant, and some of the more entertaining stories had Jasmine running off with an Egyptian man, or retreating into the muggle world; another decided that the witch had come into an inheritance from Dumbledore, and that she was off training to become a new 'Light Lord', whatever that was. The most upsetting one speculated that the Potter heir had been killed during a trip on behalf of Gringotts, and that the goblins were currently trying to cover up that fact.

Like with Jasmine herself there was nothing they could say or do about the stories, so they ignored them as best they could, just as they tried to ignore the hole in their lives.

It was a Saturday in early September, during breakfast, when the owl arrived at their flat, soaring in through the open kitchen window. It was a beautiful bengal eagle owl, huge and imperious, and it somehow managed to convey the impression that they should consider themselves privileged to relieve it of the message tied to its leg. It refused an owl treat with a snooty turn of its head, merely standing where it had landed on the third chair of the small kitchen. It had obviously been instructed to wait for a reply, and didn't want to be bothered with anything else.

"What is it?" Ron asked over his eggs as she sat back down, pulling a scroll from the copper tube it had delivered.

She read the note. Then read it again. She blinked, then read the message aloud.

_Lady Lily Fakhrani requests the pleasure_

_of Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger's presence_

_for dinner and drinks at the Shahzadeh Restaurant,_

_on Thursday, September the 22nd at Seven O'Clock_

_Please RSVP via provided owl at your earliest convenience._

_(Semi-formal attire requested)_

Ron puzzled. "Lily Fakhrani? Who's that?"

"_Fakhrani_? Why, that's the new president of KI!" Hermione said, baffled.

"So, not someone with the Ministry?"

"No, not at all! KI is a _muggle_ company. Very large, international, private holding… they make satellites, computers, medical equipment… that sort of thing." The redhead's eyes were glazing over, and she sighed. "Muggle machines, Ron. They make very complex, very expensive muggle machines. A lot of my parents' dental equipment is made by them. Fakhrani took control of the company two years ago, there was a note about it in my mother's investment magazines." She re-read the invitation and couldn't help but gasp. "The _Shahzadeh_! That's one of the best restaurants in London… it's almost impossible to get a reservation there!"

"We can't afford to go to a restaurant like that!"

"We don't have to _order_ anything. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"I'm very curious! I'm very curious why a _muggle_ businesswoman is inviting the two of us - via owl, I might add - to an upscale restaurant out of the blue."

Hermione looked dubious. "She obviously has _some_ wizarding connections. And she's not likely to be a Death Eater. Maybe she wants to thank us? Voldemort would have turned on the muggles next, you know."

"I don't know," Ron doubted. "Something is barmy about this whole thing. A muggle tecknity company president thanking a couple of wizards? And what kind of name is 'Kay-Eye', anyway?"

His fiancee shook her head. "It's an acronym. K-I. Short for Khnum Industries. People just-"

Ron looked up, a piece of bacon in his mouth, as Hermione squeaked and ground to a halt. "'Mione?"

"Ron… _Khnum_… that's a name. The name of an ancient Egyptian god… Khnum the _Potter_."

His jaw dropped, and the bacon fell back onto the plate. He took the invite from her, and stared at the one word that jumped out at him. "Lily…"

"Jasmine's mum…" Hermione said weakly. "Ron, it's _her_. It's got to be!"

"Why? Why like this?" She could tell he _wanted_ to be angry, but he wasn't able to muster it as hope sprang anew.

"I don't know," Hermione said. "But we'll need to find you a muggle suit."

* * *

The week passed ridiculously slowly. The Weasleys, once they'd found out, had wanted to invade the restaurant en masse… but Ron, to Hermione's surprise, was the one to talk them out of it.

"We don't want to scare her," he said, then seemed to realize who he was talking about. "Well, not scare… we don't want to make her mad. That'd be bad." A simple argument, but one that seemed to do the trick.

Ron didn't like muggle suits any more than he liked magical ones, but with Hermione's help - particularly with the tie - he put it on without complaints. She thought he looked very handsome and told him so, which made him a bit more tolerant. It wasn't the best of semi-formal-wear, but it wouldn't get them kicked out of the restaurant before they'd even sat down. Hermione wore the same dress she'd worn to Bill's wedding, pleased with the way it still fit properly, and pleased with the way Ron's eyes still moved up and down her body while she wore it.

They apparated to a nearby apparation point and walked the short distance to the restaurant. The sun was already at the horizon by the time they'd left, and the air was starting to chill. Hermione pulled her coat around her, deciding that any shivers were due to the cold and not the upcoming meeting.

The front of the _Shahzadeh_ was glass and meticulously-cared for flowers, and within was expensive carpet and even more expensive decorations. Paintings were arranged along the walls, including an artist's rendering of the Persepolis, and another of ancient Persian soldiers lashing the Hellespont at Xerxes' command. There was a small lineup of businessmen and women in front of the maitre'd, an impeccably-dressed middle-eastern man in a black suit, with a largish nose and dignified presence. The members of the crowd waited patiently, because impatience would be gauche. Some of the men even wore tuxedos, while their… dates? were clad in furs and more jewelry than could be found in a Gringotts vault.

Hermione had attended formal affairs with her parents before, but she felt like a barbarian at the gates as she lead Ron into the line to wait patiently. She panicked inside as the maitre'd noticed them and stepped around his podium to approach them, certain that they'd been identified as pretenders and interlopers, and at any moment they would be kindly asked to return to the tax bracket from which they'd tried to escape.

"Ms Granger? Mister Weasley?" he asked instead in an accented voice.

She swallowed past a dry mouth. "Yes?"

"We've been expecting you. If you could follow me, please?"

She and Ron looked at each other, shocked, but could only nod and obey.

They were lead into the main dining room, which was all crystal and candlelight, done up in a Middle-Eastern theme to match the name of the restaurant. Silken curtains the color of gold were placed here and there along the walls, and the carpet, a deep red, made their footsteps soundless. Couples and small groups were arranged at tables, speaking in soft whispers, as this was not a place for rambunctious frivolity. Hermione was certain this was the kind of place where multi-million dollar deals were made or broken, or agreements forged between nations long before the press ever caught wind of them.

The maitre'd guided them to an isolated corner of the restaurant, beneath an arcing ceiling of glass. The stars of the clear night were plainly visible above them, and Hermione had a giddy moment to wonder what Firenze would say of them. But she heard Ron pull in a breath, and looked down.

There, at an isolated table in the corner of the lavishly-decorated dining room was Jasmine. Dressed in an impeccable wheat-coloured tunic and slacks, she seemed so _different_ that Hermione had to look twice to be sure it was really her. The Jasmine before Egypt always dressed down, tried to fly under the radar, and could generally be described as 'meek', unless Voldemort or some other injustice was involved. _This_ Jasmine, seated with her legs very properly crossed and a small flute glass of ice water between her fingers, radiated such poise that Narcissa Malfoy would look like a drunken party girl in comparison.

Then their eyes met. Jasmine set down her glass of water and stood as the maitre'd brought them to the table.

"Madam, your guests have arrived," he said unnecessarily, though Hermione assumed there was some protocol to be followed in a place such as this. Her nerves were fraying, both from the coming conversation and from trying not to look like an unlettered hick.

Ron plopped down unceremoniously, almost glaring at Jasmine. This brought a raised eyebrow and not quite a sneer from their guide, who took it upon himself to seat Hermione, pushing in her chair in a gentlemanly manner. She knew better than to comment; she wasn't going to _start_ the night with a fight, and it wasn't Ron's fault that he didn't know. She watched as the maitre'd also sat Jasmine.

She hid her surprise as the other woman quietly spoke to the man in what sounded like Hebrew. No… this was a Persian restaurant, so it was probably Farsi, wasn't it? She made small gestures at the two newcomers, and Hermione was a bit concerned.

After a moment, the man left with practiced haste, and Jasmine turned to them. "I took the liberty of ordering for you," she said, "though if you want a glass of wine or liquor, just ask the waiter. Anything you like… you're my guests, and there's no bill for you to worry about.

"Now, since none of us know how this conversation will go, I suggest we eat first," she suggested, neatly forestalling anything Hermione might have said. "I, for one, have been working all day and I'm very hungry. Then we can talk or argue or whatever, and no matter the outcome at least we'll all have full bellies to show for it. Agreed?"

Hermione reached under the table and squeezed Ron's knee. "Sure. Food first, that sounds fine." After a moment Ron nodded as well.

The next few minutes were amazingly awkward, but the service in the restaurant was also amazingly fast. In short order a few small plates filled with small, grilled flatbreads were delivered, along with a ridiculously delicious dip she couldn't identify. A shared plate of tiny stuffed and roasted tomatoes was placed in the center of the table. The waiter - a different man from the maitre'd - flitted about them, placing napkins on their laps and almost panicking Ron.

The little breads disappeared quickly, though Hermione had barely finished chewing when the waiter returned with their main dishes. Ron received a plate of kabobs, which she silently acknowledged as a good choice... it was familiar enough not to put him off, and yet he'd undoubtedly enjoy it. It would also counter his unfortunate tendency to eat too fast, which made her wonder if flavour and presentation hadn't been the only criteria in Jasmine's choice.

Both women received a plate with roasted chicken, along with basmati rice dusted with some kind of yellowish-orange spice and mixed with small, reddish berries. Hermione found them both sweet and tart, and again she found herself needing to avoid imitating her fiance at his worst dinner table behaviour, it was so good.

As Jasmine ordered a glass of wine, Hermione ignored Ron's look as she requested a glass of the same. They were at one of the best restaurants in the UK, about to find out whether their best friend _was_ still their best friend… she was having some wine, damnit! Jasmine seemed ever so slightly pleased as she did so.

She ate her meal slowly and with great restraint, relishing every bite. Beside her she could see Ron also enjoying his food, though he was trying and failing to hide it. She sipped her wine whenever she forced herself to stop eating for a moment, and would watch Jasmine. The other woman ate as elegantly as she seemed to do everything else: small bites, punctuated with sips of wine that were savoured before swallowing.

Jasmine noticed her scrutiny and raised a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at her. Hermione blushed and went back to her meal.

Before too long they'd finished their meals, and the relentlessly-efficient waiter had swooped in and whisked their plates away, in their place leaving behind dessert in the form of clear glass cups of rice pudding and a square of baklava.

Jasmine didn't pick up her spoon, instead steepling her fingers and pressing them against her lip as she watched them. Hermione found that her appetite had fled, although half of Ron's pudding was already gone.

"If you want to talk, we can probably do so now," Jasmine remarked, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands on her stomach.

She looked at them, and they back at her. Hermione was frustrated; the Jasmine she knew wore her heart on her sleeve, and she'd lost track of the amount of trouble they'd suffered because her friend couldn't control her emotions or her mouth. This new Jasmine was a sphinx - a turn of phrase that made Hermione slightly ill even as she thought how appropriate it was. She didn't even fidget, her hands folded very properly in her lap, thumbs touching. If it wasn't for the movement of her eyes, you'd think she was a statue.

She swallowed past a suddenly dry mouth. "I don't know where to start."

"It's probably best to start with the most difficult thing between us," Jasmine replied. "And that's this: nothing can go back to what it was. What's done is done. The past is the past. And most importantly, I am what I am. I need you both to understand this."

Hermione looked at her fiance, and saw little help from that direction. "We… I get that-"

"Do you?" Jasmine asked. "I can see how off-balance you are. I have your friend's face, I have her voice… but you're not sure I _am_ her."

"Are you?" Ron asked, almost hostile.

She looked at him flatly. "No, I'm not. Just like you're no longer the petty, jealous boy I met on the train, nor is Hermione the prissy know-it-all. Time works on us all, Ronald. We learn and grow and change, and become new people every moment of every day. And Chronos has had a very long time to have his way with me. What we need to figure out is if I've become someone with whom you aren't interested in maintaining a friendship."

"Well, I have to say, ditching us in the middle of the desert and then emptying your apartment isn't a good way to start things over." Despite Ron's blunt wording, Hermione found herself nodding in agreement.

Jasmine nodded calmly. "You're right. That was wrong of me. My only excuse is that I was running away."

"Running away?" Hermione injected. "From what?"

"From you." The serenity of her expression hadn't changed, but she was lightly pressing her thumbs together and releasing. Press, release… press, release.

The statement confused Ron and broke his anger. "Us? Why?"

"Because you're the reality," Jasmine said. She relaxed a bit and sighed. "I've lived with only memories of you for millennia. I've… idealized those memories. Hermione Granger, the righteous and clever. Ronald Weasley, the forthright and strong. For thousands of years, those were the people I thought of when I thought of you. I was afraid that I'd speak with you, and you'd just be... people. It's not fair to you, and it was wrong for me to run. I hope you can forgive me.

"Now… you have questions. Go ahead and ask them," Jasmine said, "I can't promise to answer everything, but the answers I give you will be truth."

Hermione hesitated. "What… happened after you were sent back?"

"I don't remember," she replied. She held up a hand at Hermione's frown. "I'm not being coy. The first eight hundred years of my life are… faded. I can give you vague impressions, supplemented with some logical conclusions and journals I made for myself later. I was found by villagers and given shelter. I'd imagine I was confused and lost, and the villagers probably didn't know what to make of me… a green-eyed caucasian in the middle of an ancient Egyptian village. I remember a few battles… I was probably driving off brigands. I remember the people naming me 'Wadjet'.

"I… don't remember when I noticed that I wasn't aging. It was probably only a decade or two after my arrival. I didn't travel too much for the first few centuries… it was difficult, Egypt was unforgiving, and I'd ended up serving the Pharaohs as advisor. Add in the fact that, for all intents and purposes, magic didn't _exist_ yet. I found a few muggleborn wizards and witches, and taught them, but it wasn't just teaching… we were researching magic itself, based on what little I could remember from Hogwarts. Essentially reverse-engineering what I already knew.

"It was probably… seven hundred years later that I began to grow bored and restless. My journals are more detailed, then… I had noticed that memory was becoming a problem. I left Egypt, and travelled. I won't get into details, because there's so very many. But… _that_ has been my life since then. I travel around the world, settling here and there, sometimes for a couple hundred years at a time. I move on when I feel myself growing stagnant, or when my presence starts drawing attention."

"So you don't know… why? Why you've lived so long?"

"No. I have some theories, but testing them is… unpleasant."

She had a feeling further questions along that vein would be politely but firmly refused, at least at this early stage of their re-introduction. Instead, she changed tack. "How did you avoid affecting history?"

"Primarily, by not being anywhere near events when I knew the outcome," the raven-haired witch replied, "and as it happens I knew very little history, which shielded me. Understand, the danger of time travel is the temptation to change the flow of what _will_ happen so that it conflicts with what _has _happened in your own timestream. The conflict is the source of disaster, and is one of the reasons why time-turners are so dangerous… they restrict you to moving about within your own timeline, where by definition you already know the outcome. But if you don't _know_ the outcome, you can't oppose it. Your actions and reactions are honest, I suppose you could say. Things work out the way they were supposed to in the first place."

"Hold on," Ron jumped in. He'd looked bewildered through most of her explanation, but now seemed to have come to an epiphany. "Just so I understand: your lack of knowledge of history helped you avoid damaging time?"

"Fundamentally, yes."

"So… _not_ knowing something was the best thing? So you and I sleeping through History was actually the best choice?" He actually seemed amused.

Jasmine squinted. "I don't remember that, but if so… yes, I suppose."

Ron was looking at Hermione with a triumphant look on his face. She rolled her eyes, glad to see him break out of the perpetual glower he'd worn since they'd arrived, but not willing to concede ignorance as any kind of _asset._

"But, what about portions of history you _did_ know about?" she asked. "I mean, you're _Morgana_," she stumbled, uttering the name in a harsh whisper, "and I know you knew the name before you went back."

"That's an interesting detail," Jasmine admitted. "Occasionally, you'll find yourself pulled into an event before you realize what's going on. It was… 300 AD. I was in Britannia, exploring the land I believed was my birthplace, but of which I had no real memory… and, as it happens, avoiding the wizards of the collapsing Roman Empire, who had some knowledge of the 'immortal witch' and were looking for me. I was in a village up north, which was too small to have a name but was close to Balnageith."

Hermione leaned in, rapt, and she could see Ron equally entranced.

"We were set upon from the sea… Germanic barbarians, who with the collapse of the Empire were running rampant across Europe. I fought them, driving them back to their longboats and then calling forth a storm which sent them to the bottom. The villagers I'd saved… they'd always been slightly afraid of me, but after that, they named me _Muirgen_, 'Sea Defender'. The name which over time became Morgan... and after that Morgana, thanks to the Italians. I recognized it from my long-lost memories, and I realized I'd been given a role to play. Recruited, if you will, by Time itself."

"So you just… played along?"

Jasmine tilted her head in a small nod. "In a way. But I didn't remember much of the tales, and some of them are tripe to begin with. It's not like my actions were dictated to me. I didn't know my fate, I just knew I couldn't run from it, not without causing more harm than I could know."

"Did you really train Merlin?" Ron asked hesitantly.

"That… is a sensitive topic. But yes. I taught him, until he'd grown to the point where he was teaching me. He was a dear friend, and an incredible wizard. His legend is far more deserved than my own."

"So… you were there. During Camelot... during the founding of Hogwarts," Hermione said with awe.

"I wasn't a tourist," Jasmine said, an edge to her voice, "nor am I an exhibit."

Ron growled. "Leave off, Jas. She didn't mean it like that, and you know it."

"Ron-" Hermione began, her face red.

"No, he's right," their friend interrupted. Jasmine closed her eyes briefly. "I apologize, Hermione. You only want to learn, and I respect that."

Despite Jasmine's words, Hermione still felt bad, and the three of them found themselves stuck in a long, awkward silence. Even Ron was poking his baklava with a fork, until it was reduced to flaky wreckage on his plate.

Eventually, Jasmine sighed. "I don't know how I expected this to go."

"We just don't know what to _do_, Jasmine," Hermione said for both of them.

"Do? There is nothing to be done, Hermione. We are where we are… the question is where do we go from here?"

"Where _do_ we go?" Ron asked.

Jasmine pursed her lips. "I don't know. I can tell you where I'm not willing to go. I'm not willing to go down the path of pretending none of this has happened. I like who I am now, and who I am is the product of all that has come before, both the good and the bad. And when I say I don't want to wear a mask - a lie - in front of you, I hope you take that in the spirit in which it is meant."

"So we have to start over," Hermione said. "But how can we do that? You… All that time! We must be like pathetic little children to you!" There. It was said. And it was typical, she supposed. Ron wanted to bring his friend back; Hermione was worried about catching up.

Jasmine sighed, and perhaps there was a little crack in her exterior; a slight turning of the lips, a bit of fondness in her eyes. "Young? Yes. Pathetic? Never. I may not remember much on my own, but I kept track of your paths - and mine - through Hogwarts. I know how you stood beside me, and the hurts you've suffered doing so. But now there's a lot of missing time between us, and we have to decide whether that time is too much of an obstacle." She took a breath. "If the differences in me are too much, be honest and say so. I won't think less of you."

The silence grew long, and Hermione didn't know what to say. What was there to say? How did a friendship survive five thousand years apart? "It's just," she began weakly, "you're… so _mature_ now..." That didn't bring the reaction she expected. The corners of Jasmine's eyes crinkled, and she pressed her lips together. The raven-haired witch reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "What? What did I say?"

Jasmine dropped her hand, letting a full smile show on her face. "I'm over five thousand years old, Hermione, and you're still _surprised_ that I'm _mature_. I really have to ask… what was I _like_ as a child?"

It took a moment for Hermione to realize what Jasmine meant, and why it was funny. Ron was quicker on the uptake, and he grinned behind his glass of water. It was desperate humour, the kind that sprung from emotions stretched taut, but she was grateful for it. She laughed quietly. "I don't think I should answer that."

"Are you still coming to the wedding?" Ron suddenly asked out of nowhere.

Hermione blinked. So did Jasmine, and Hermione realized that, _finally_, they'd said something she hadn't anticipated.

"I… hadn't… well, I wasn't sure I'd still be welcome."

"You're the Maid of Honour! You said you'd show up, and it's too late to back out now, so you'd better. You do, and we're fine, yeah?"

Hermione watched a torrent of emotions play across her friend's face, defying even her rigid control. "Well, if I said I would, I'd better."

"Right! And you've had thousands of years to plan your present for 'Mione's hen party-"

His fiancee swatted him. "_Bachelorette!_"

"- so you'd best have something good."

"I think I can find something," Jasmine replied. "Is it still on November tenth?"

"Yes, I can owl you a new invite," Hermione said, her voice quivering slightly but warmth spreading from her heart. Leave it to Ron to reduce the emotional situation to its base, vital essence.

"I think I have the original… but I'll owl if I can't find it."

Hermione beamed, and even Ron managed a lopsided smile. Jasmine looked at each of them, and then allowed herself a small smile. Then she stood, graceful as ever, and looked down at them.

"This is a good spot to leave this… for now. I have to go, but I _am_ very pleased that you came," she said. She gestured at the table. "Stay as long as you like, and if you're still hungry or thirsty, order anything you want. I'm covering it."

Hermione glanced at Ron. "You should at least let us contribute a little to the bill…"

"There is no bill."

The bookworm looked askance at her friend. "I know you can probably well afford it, Jas, but-"

The other woman raised a hand. "You don't understand. There _is_ no bill. This is my restaurant, Hermione... I own the place." This time, there was definitely a pleased mischievousness in those green eyes as the couple's jaws dropped. "So, enjoy yourselves."

She gave them a little nod of the head and left, carefully navigating amongst the posh guests of the restaurant, though even the wealthy couples and businessmen instinctively made way for her. The pair watched her depart in stunned silence.

When she'd disappeared from view, Hermione looked at her fiance. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "She did that deliberately," he said, disturbed and amused simultaneously. She couldn't repress a soft snort of agreement.

They stared at each other, until Ron quirked a grin. "So, if we're raiding Jas' pantry, should we get anything else?"

This time she giggled. "I don't want to look like a glutton _here_ of all places. But," she added hopefully, "maybe there's a sampler platter?"


	3. August, 1991: Lemonade and the Stone

The home of the legendary Morgan was not that hard to find, all told.

Nicolas apparated outside the small home in rural Georgia and winced as he was suddenly hit with the hot, humid air of the southern state. He quickly scanned around himself, making sure no muggles had witnessed his arrival. He had no particular desire to deal with the American Obliviators, nor bother with the fuss of memory-charming someone himself.

Seeing no one, he drew his wand and cast a quick cooling charm on himself. He was wearing a muggle suit, and didn't want to weigh it down with sweat. The shield from the summer heat made him sigh in relief, and he tucked his wand back up his sleeve.

The house he stood in front of was as muggle as could be. Two stories tall with wooden shingles, the home was painted a cheerful red that had faded and bubbled in the sun. A picket fence, somewhat aged and neglected, surrounded the yard, and a few dog toys could be seen littering the front lawn. A blue muggle automobile sat beside it, coated in a light layer of dust from the dry dirt road that Nicolas stood upon. The narrow lane wound off into the trees and disappeared over a small hill. More trees, including many oaks for which Georgia state was known, surrounded the large back lawn and a single mighty southern live oak. In the shade of that beautiful tree sat a small table and a pair of lawn chairs.

The pastoral image made the ancient wizard smile. Geoffrey Goyle, Morgan's personal butler and master of her estate in British Columbia in her long absence, who had showed him the photograph needed to apparate to the location, had told him it would be so. Geoffrey had also provided Nicolas with Morgan's current _nom de guerre_, "Jasmine West"... which he found very interesting, considering the nature of his visit.

The small gate at the front path was open, so Nicolas walked through it up to the front screen door of the house. The inner storm door was open, and he could just see inside; some boots were placed at the foot of the carpeted stairs extending upward to the right of the entrance, and a woman's raincoat hung on a hook above them. Raising his hand, Nicolas rapped smartly on the wooden door.

"Jus' a minute!" called a feminine voice from inside. Nicolas heard a thump and the disgruntled whine of a dog, followed by some colourful cursing in a Southern accent. "Dammit, Albus, _move!_" After a moment a young woman came down the stairs, her vibrant green eyes widening slightly as she saw him through the screen door.

She broke into a smile as she opened the door. "Nick!" She hugged him, and he squeezed her back, a pleased smile gracing his face as well. "This is a surprise! C'mon in…" She ushered him through the door, taking a quick scan outside for anyone else.

He raised an eyebrow at her as she turned back to him. "Nobody outside. Come now, Morgan, give me _some_ credit."

"I know, I know," she replied with a smile. Her voice had shifted down half an octave, and all trace of her Southern accent was gone. "Indulge an old woman her foibles."

He raised an eyebrow at that familiar claim, amused, as he looked her over. She was dressed in a simple red tank top and scandalous cut-off jean shorts, suitable for the Georgia summer heat. Her hair, long and dark, cascaded over her shoulders, and every inch of visible skin was smooth and lightly tanned. She _looked_ like a girl barely out of her schooling years.

Sometimes it was difficult to remember that she had walked the earth nearly ten times longer than his own, unnaturally-long life span.

As if sensing his thoughts, she fisted her hands on her hips as she smirked at him. "Are you trying to make Peri jealous?"

"_My_ wife? Jealous? Possibly. I don't know which one of us she'd be jealous of, mind." Morgan laughed. The night Nicolas' wife had met his mentor centuries before - somehow leaping to the conclusion that the beautiful young woman Nick had brought home was actually meant to be an extra guest in their marital bed before her red-faced husband corrected her - had settled into infamy. Particularly because Perenelle had not been as opposed to the idea as Nicolas might have assumed.

"Well, come on into the kitchen," Morgan gestured. "I'm afraid I don't have any tea… I'm a coffee drinker this time around, but it's too hot for that. How about some lemonade?"

"Lemonade sounds perfect," he agreed, following her into the house's small but friendly kitchen. The two of them had slipped into what the historians would call Middle French in their speech. It was the language of his childhood, and what he spoke at home with Perenelle. Morgan would switch languages sometimes without even realizing, but whether it was conscious or not he found it warming.

A small table sat by the wall, with two cheap metal chairs on either side. He sank into one as Morgan puttered around the kitchen, pulling a glass pitcher from the muggle refrigerator (or did the Americans call them iceboxes? Nicolas could never keep that straight) and pouring two tall tumblers full. She also filled a small plate with some biscuits… store-bought, unfortunately. He hid his disappointment... Morgan's homemade biscuits were exquisite. But that didn't stop him from helping himself to two as she put the glasses and plate between them.

The lemonade was delicious and cold, perfect for the early afternoon. Nicolas was regretting wearing his muggle suit - England was not nearly so sweltering. He shrugged off his blazer and folded it onto his lap. He thought about casting another cooling charm on himself, but resisted the notion… as a rule, when Morgan was living a muggle life she tried to do without magic as much as possible, and he respected that.

The click of claws on linoleum drew his attention, as a medium-sized dog entered the kitchen. He seemed to be some kind of collie mix, panting in the heat, investigating the kitchen and its new visitor.

"Well, hello there," Nicolas greeted, holding out a hand for the canine to sniff. After a moment he shifted his hand and pet the animal between the ears, causing the pooch to break out into a panting dog smile. Evidently deciding the grey-bearded human was an okay sort, he turned and sat on Nicolas' foot and leaned back so the scratching could continue.

"Watch out for him, he likes to trip people," Morgan warned, giving her pet the evil eye.

Nicolas looked down at the dark-haired collie, who was currently watching him intently with mournful eyes, expressing the kind of doggie wistfulness that only the gift of a biscuit could fix. "Did you really name him Albus?" The pooch's ears perked up, realizing he was being spoken of, and implicitly answering Nicolas' question.

"Well, he's always underfoot, so it seemed appropriate."

He snorted in laughter at the reference to his friend and student. Albus (Albus Dumbledore, that is, not Albus the Dog) had made several attempts to find the elusive Morgan, aka Morgana, in the nineteen-fifties and sixties. Dumbledore - for all his faults - was exceptionally brilliant and driven, and had actually come very close to finding her several times, much to the ancient witch's annoyance. The Hogwarts headmaster was too skilled to be fooled with a glamour, and because of the _unique_ circumstances with Morgan's younger self, she couldn't risk the persistent wizard seeing her face. So she was forced to simply hide, which grated against her nature and was very disruptive to whatever life she was living at the time.

He looked around the home that was hers for the moment. It was small and simple, but had a pleasant charm to it. Lemon-colored drapes over the windows tinted the room yellow, and simple white-painted pine cabinets lined the walls. A short hallway stretched to the door from which he'd entered, and the living room branched off of that, carpeted with a dark green rug, thick curtains closed against the scorching midday sun. Fortunately the kitchen was on the shaded side of the house, and the rear door was open, allowing a pleasant breeze to pass through and ease the heat. Beyond he could see the pristine trees and grasses of the surrounding countryside, isolated as the house was in the rural area.

"I like your home," he said honestly. It had a country sweetness to it, reminding him of the cottages to be found in the innocent corners of muggle England. "May I ask what kind of life you're living now?"

Morgan smiled. "I'm a schoolteacher, as it happens. Fresh out of college. Can't really justify too much of a place on that salary. As it was I bought this place with an 'inheritance'." She made quotes in the air as she referenced the gift of money, from and to herself, carefully obscured from too much muggle scrutiny.

"And might I ask what you teach?"

"English. And, well… History." She had the good grace to blush. A five thousand year old woman teaching History was, frankly, cheating.

"Really, now," he said. "I didn't expect Americans cared about History unless it was their own."

She gave him a mock scowl for voicing the stereotype. "I'll have you know they learn a great deal in my classes."

"And I wonder why that might be," he replied, hiding a smile with a sip of his lemonade even as he pointedly ran his eyes along the toned length of her legs. Certainly if he'd had a teacher who looked like Morgan during his schooling years, his concentration would have been _intense_. She rolled her eyes at the joke, but was pleased with the compliment. "I have to say, this is quite a contrast from your last identity. Very… what's the muggle term? 'Rockwellian?'"

"You never did care much for Lilith, did you?" she replied with a smile, speaking of her previous existence as a university student in New York City a decade before. A student who was also, apparently, a 'punk rocker', a muggle term that as far as Nicolas could tell involved ragged clothing, excessive jewelry, and a dour attitude. But part of that might have been attributed to the death of her parents just beforehand, a tragedy she'd been forced to allow to happen for the second time. He suspected she'd been hurting badly then... and her chosen guise, angry at the world, had been more fact than fiction.

"I just couldn't get used to that _hair_," he said instead, causing her to laugh.

They chatted for a while longer, in the way that people who had been friends for centuries, but only saw each other once a decade, could. She asked about Perenelle, who was regretfully unable to come along on the trip; after the initial embarrassment had passed, the two women had become fast friends. They had been known to fuss over one another, and occasionally conspire (as far as he was concerned) against Nicolas. For his part he inquired after the state of her company, currently being managed by proxy, and her estate in British Columbia, which he'd only just passed through.

Finally, though, he had to bring up the purpose for his visit.

"Your younger self has received her Hogwarts letter," he began carefully. She barely reacted… a slight widening of her eyes. "Well, I should say at _least_ her Hogwarts letter. I'm not sure what's going on inside that house, but there's been a steady stream of owls from the school. They're nearly swarming the place."

Her gaze was unfocused, turned inward, to that long stretch of time at the beginning of her life, memories laid down before she'd gained the surety of Occlumency to make them last. Nicolas was acutely aware that without Morgan's own tutelage he would have suffered the same fate. "I… don't remember," she said softly. "I do know my aunt is enormously hostile to magic. I would imagine she or her husband are destroying the letters."

"Inclined to battle the tide, are they?" he snorted. She did not comment. "Things are in motion. How do you feel about that?"

"How do I feel?" she repeated. She stood, taking the her empty glass and the empty plate to set them in the kitchen sink. She leaned on the counter, looking out upon the lawn. "My parents are dead. My godfather rots unjustly in Azkaban, and the only memory I've managed to hang onto is his _death_, which I'm forced to allow to happen again. A great deal is going to happen, none of it good, and I can't lift a finger to even ease the pain. I feel the same way I've felt for decades… powerless."

Any other wizard might have considered that statement ridiculous. In all the legends - and in reality too, as far as Nicolas could tell - Morgan was only second to Merlin himself in magical power. Will and skill, that was magic… and time had granted her plenty enough of both. Even the mightiest witch to walk the earth was a slave to the flow of time, however. He couldn't imagine what it'd be like to have an idea of what was coming, to have the power to stop it all… and yet be forced to watch as tragedy unfolded yet again.

"You won't be limited much longer," he pointed out.

"I'm aware of that. Unfortunately that's of little comfort right now."

"Are you going to contact your friends again?" he asked. She didn't respond for a long time, staring straight ahead. "Morgan-"

"I _heard_ you Nick," she said. "I don't know."

"Why wouldn't you? You've waited millennia for this. I understand staying away for now, preserving the timeline. But once you've done what needs to be done," - he was careful not to say '_exiled yourself back into prehistoric times_' - "why would you deny yourself that?"

"It's not the reunion. It's what comes afterward."

"Afterward?"

"Yes, _afterward_. Watching them grow old. Watching them die. Watching yet more friends take the journey that is denied to me."

"They'll do that anyway. Morgan, you've lived your entire life for this, for the moment when you could speak with them again…"

"Yes, my happily ever after!" she laughed bitterly. She turned to face him, holding onto the counter behind her. "The 'happily' will be but a moment, and then it'll be forever 'ever after'! I… I don't know if I can watch them do it. I can't. A fantasy does no harm, but the reality… I'll go mad again, Nicolas, I know it."

Centuries of familiarity let him hear the abject fear in her voice. In the long stretch of her life she rarely put down roots, but those she did were deep. Every time those roots were torn away, it nearly broke her. He knew what a boggart would show her… herself, alone, at the ending of the world.

"Albus has asked me for the Stone," he stated quietly.

An oppressive silence descended on the kitchen. Morgan's dog looked between the two, sensing his mistress' upset better than any human could. The poor animal whined softly.

"He's setting a trap for Voldemort." He didn't ask her if she remembered that; it didn't matter... it was an easy deduction.

"In all likelihood."

"Once he has it, he's going to try to convince you to destroy it."

"Again… likely."

"Tell him no." She turned, and her jaw was clenched. "Make a fake Stone, give him that."

It was phrased as an order, but he hadn't been her apprentice in a long time. "Morgan-"

"Albus is in _love_ with death, you know that, Nick. He's never been able to forgive himself for his sister. You can't let him talk you into this!"

"Morgan!" Nicolas barked. "I'm fully capable of making my own decisions! Albus is charming and clever, but he's still a _child_ and he can't make me do anything I don't want to do!"

"Then why would you want to?" she demanded, her hands clenching on the lip of the countertop, her knuckles white.

"Do you think you're the only person to bury family and friends?" he growled. There were a grand total of four people in the world who could speak to her the way he was; his wife was at home, and the other two were children who hadn't even learned of her identity yet, much less their privilege. "I may be a tenth your age, but that's still more than enough time to grasp _loss_. And unlike you, I had a tool at hand to prevent it... a gift of the Elixir, and I'd never have to lose a friend to time again! But like you, I've let what has to be done override what I _want_ to do, and I've had to say goodbye to friend after friend because of it."

"Do you really want to compare numbers?" she asked angrily. "Because-"

"This isn't a game of who has suffered the worst!" he snapped. "Death may skip us, but he comes for everyone around us! And it gets _so… tiring_!"

"So what? Life goes on!" The ancient woman's voice was shaking, and it hurt him to hear. "Children everywhere will bury their parents, lovers depart from beloved, accidents happen! We don't just _stop_ because-" She skidded to a stop, eyes wide. Finally hearing her own words, just as Nicolas had been voicing _her_ own thoughts. He smiled at her sadly, his own anger gone as quickly as it had appeared. She drew a shaky breath. "Clever boy," she whispered.

"You don't have a monopoly on the 'wise old goat' role, you know," he remarked. He stood and walked over to her, squeezing her shoulders gently. "I understand what you're going through, Morgan. And Peri will listen when you need to talk, too. We won't very well abandon you."

"No, Nicolas, please." She laid her hands on his chest, and there were tears in her eyes. "If… if you and Peri get tired, and you want to move on… please, don't stay for me. I couldn't bear it if I thought you were trapped in this world because of me."

He rumbled in his chest. "Morgan, I said I'm capable of making my own decisions. When… _when_ that time comes, I'll let you know."

"And now?" The desperation in the voice of so old and powerful a woman was heartbreaking.

"And now, neither one of us is bored. As you've said before, the muggles are definitely getting interesting. Peri is writing muggle science-fiction novels, did you know that? And she's ridiculously addicted to that 'Star Trek' show. And I'm having a grand time studying that genome research your company provides me."

He smiled at her. "There are deaths, Morgan, yes… but there are births, too. Go to your friends… not just for yourself, but for them. When your younger self goes back she'll leave a hole in their lives, one you can fill. They will live and die, but when they go to the next world, they'll bring the love you've given them along, and you'll _know_ that."

She sighed, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. "They'll barely recognize me. I've done too much… I don't even remember enough to pretend."

"If they're the friends you think they are, you won't have to."

"And if they're not?"

"Then you'll still have me and Peri." Still a bit teary, Morgan leaned forward and hugged him.

"What will you do about Albus?" she asked into his hair.

"Albus? Well, my old student may be a master strategist, but I don't know why in the world he thinks he has to use the real Stone when a copy will do. And when he asks me to destroy _that_, I'll oblige."

"It's a shame you have to trick him. He's a bit of an arse, but I do like him. Or… liked him. Whatever."

Nicolas stepped away. "My regret is that you two can't meet. I'd give up my fortune to see the great Albus Dumbledore starry-eyed with hero worship."

"Oh, shush."

She turned to wash the dishes, and he recognized she needed the moment to collect herself. Nicolas crouched to console poor Albus, who was worried for his mistress. Somewhere on the other side of the ocean, his namesake was doing the same, though for different reasons.

Just as she was finishing up, there was another knock at the door. Morgan raised her eyebrows at him, and he smiled. Hanging the dish towel over a metal rack, she went to answer it. Nicolas followed, curious as to what kind of visitors "Jasmine West" would receive.

In this case it was a teenage boy, just exiting the awkward phase of puberty, tall and gangly. His brown hair was cut short, almost to a military length, but he wore blue jeans and a t-shirt that proudly extolled "Nirvana"... which had nothing to do with Buddhism, Nicolas guessed, based on the accompanying picture. Judging from his tan and the worn state of his boots, the boy was the active sort, comfortable outside despite the heat.

"Justin!" Morgan greeted, obviously recognizing the lad.

"Uh… hi, Miss West!" he stammered. The poor young man, caught in the throes of teenage hormones, was obviously flustered by his teacher's summer-wear, but Nicolas had to give him credit for managing to keep his eyes up… most of the time.

"Is anythin' wrong?" she asked with concern. Her southern accent was back in force. "Why are you scorchin' yourself outside on a hot day like this?"

"Oh, no ma'am!" Justin replied, recovering his equilibrium. "I was wondering if you had any jobs you needed doin', like… maybe mowin' your lawn, or paintin'? I was just… well, my pop said that if I could earn the money to buy a car, he'd cover the insurance. So I'm basically just goin' around, looking for work. Ma'am."

Morgan grinned at him, and Nicolas was glad to see it was an honest smile. He was also amused by the poor lad, whose red-tinged skin had nothing at all to do with the sun.

"Well, _Jasmine_, I can see you have business, so I'll leave you to it," Nicolas said, doing his best to imitate an American accent. He knew better than to shoot for Morgan's southern twang, so settled for something more east coast. "Call me, I mean it."

To his surprise she hugged him again, even in front of the young man. "I will," she replied.

"Good enough. Have a good day. You too, Justin." Nicolas nodded respectfully at him, and the young man seemed to swell a bit at being acknowledged as an equal by the much older man in front of his crush.

He sidestepped them both and descended the few steps from the porch, waving amicably at them as he walked away and turned down the lane. He needed some distance… he hadn't quite mastered Morgan's talent at near-silent Apparition. He walked slowly; though he was particularly spry for a man of six-and-a-half centuries, there was no need to advertise it. Plus, he wanted to listen in a bit.

"Who was that?" he heard Justin ask.

"That? That was my uncle."

"Really? He was kinda short, wasn't he? That beard was neat, though."

"I'll tell 'im you said that," Morgan replied with amused reproach. "He's smart. An' good to talk to. Now, you mentioned mowin'? Come in, you need somethin' cold 'fore you do anything, and you can tell me how much it'll cost."

Justin's reply was lost as the pair retreated to the kitchen. With an amused grin, Nicolas disapparated with a subdued pop.


	4. 417AD: Forging a Legend (part one)

The boy ran.

Beneath him the mud and slush of London's streets sucked at his boots. They were a bit too big, stolen from the feet of a dead man just a month before as he outgrew the ragged ones he'd been wearing. Now he wished he'd found a corpse a bit more his size as the leather footwear flopped around his feet, nearly tripping him and slowing him down. Having room to grow into them seemed like a silly and distant concern at the moment.

It was an unseasonably warm winter's day, the sun high in the sky, and the streets teemed with people. He narrowly dodged an old man pulling a cart laden with straw, and drew curses from a pair of women as he accidentally splashed them with frigid, muddy water. The curses rose in volume moments later as the three men chasing him plowed their way through the crowds with much less consideration. The people knew not to press the issue too far, though… the men chasing him were wizards.

The boy's inner sense tingled at the same time as he heard one of the wizards shout something. He ducked instinctively, and a white bolt of light passed over his head and splashed harmlessly against the wood of a nearby shack. Panic lent energy to his legs, and he ran harder. The gates to the city were just a hundred paces to the north. There were never any gate guards anymore, not since the Romans abandoned Britannia and Londinium to their own devices in a desperate attempt to concentrate on the rampaging barbarian hordes assaulting from Gaul and the northeast. But that exit was too obvious, and once he was through the gates there'd be no buildings to shield him from spellfire.

He ducked suddenly to the right into an alley the ran along the inside of the city wall. He was behind most of the buildings here, and he dodged refuse - mouldering stacks of straw, a broken chicken coop, and a shattered cart - as he ran. He could circle around, maybe throw them off the chase, and make it to the northeast corner of the city-

Mistake! One of the wizards had anticipated his ploy and entered the alley from the other end. He tried to duck past the man as the thin wizard lifted his wand, but an invisible force lifted him and cast him against the stone wall that surrounded Londinium. His head struck the blocks and he saw stars as he fell to the muddy ground. Cold wetness crawled up his side as he lay stunned on the frozen muddy ground. He cried out as a spell struck his thigh, a sensation like he'd been struck with a switch. Another hit his shoulder, and he curled up instinctively, as though it afforded any protection from magic.

"Well, that was a merry chase, boy," came an accented voice speaking Latin. He glanced up past the protection of his arm and saw the apparent leader of the trio glaring down at him with malicious glee. He was breathing hard, and the boy tried to take what little satisfaction he could for making him work for his prize.

The man was obviously a Saxon - many could be found in Britannia, either trying to escape the chaos of the continent or looking for easy pickings themselves. He was finely dressed in a thick woolen cloak over a quality linen tunic… typical for continental wizards, who held themselves apart from the violence and privation of the non-magical folk around them. But obviously the Saxon had encountered some violence in the past, as his nose had been broken and healed inexpertly; it bent slightly to the right.

The boy wished he could meet the man who had done it.

The Saxon's accomplices - the boy named them Reedy and Big-arms in his mind - came to stand behind their leader as he stood over the fallen teenager. Big-arms looked particularly winded, leaning down as he panted, but Reedy looked like he could run across the entire city all over again.

"So, boy… you seemed so eager to listen to us talk before," Bent-nose said, his wand tapping against his open palm as he stared down at him. "Why the sudden shyness now, eh? Have we suddenly ceased to be interesting? Is there no more reason to spy?"

"I wasn't spying!" the boy objected. He'd been accused of worse - he'd _done_ worse - but for some reason the charge angered him. "I was just trying to learn!"

This actually seemed to baffle the Saxons. "Learn? Learn _what_?"

"Magic! You were cleaning your clothes with a spell, I just wanted to learn the spell!"

"You wanted to learn magic?" The Saxons looked among each other, and exploded into uproarious laughter. The boy turned scarlet at their mockery.

The thin wizard, Reedy, tried to speak through the hilarity. "I suppose animals can learn all sorts of tricks these days, even the muggle ones."

"I'm no muggle!" shouted the boy. He'd learned that that was the odd word the wizards used for non-magical folk… and often doubled as an insult. "I'm a wizard, too!"

Bent-nose raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you are, eh? Then I guess we can be your teachers!"

"I can teach you a spell! Here, boy, pay attention: _Laedo_!" A light red spark shot from Reedy's wand and struck the boy on the inner thigh, and again he felt as if he'd been stung by the biggest, nastiest wasp in the forest. He gasped, and the thin Saxon laughed. "Did you get that? _Laedo_!" Again he was struck.

He glared at Reedy. Something inside him surged, riding his desperation, and the man suddenly squawked as his feet were ripped out from under him. He hung in the air a moment before the invisible force released him to land face-first into the muck.

Wands raised to point at the boy again, while the thin wizard climbed to his feet, his face brown with cold mud and red with anger. "Worthless brat!" Magic lashed out and hit the boy in the stomach like a fist, knocking him back against the city wall and leaving him breathless on the ground. "Search him, he has a wand."

"Don't be stupid," said Bent-nose. "That wasn't him, that was accidental magic. Guess the boy's got at least one worthwhile parent, eh? Some fool rutting with the beasts." The man saw the boy's face contort in anger. "Oho, offended you, have I? Well then, we'd best resolve this with a proper wizard's duel, eh?" He laughed again, and Big-arms joined him, though Reedy continued to wipe angrily at the mud on his face. "Come, lad. I'll even let you cast first."

The boy laboured to his feet, wheezing. "I don't have a wand."

"What was that?"

"I _don't have a wand_!" Oh, he'd tried to get one, risking his life on more than one occasion to filch a passing wizard's pocket or snatch one left unattended. But wizards cared for their wands more than their gold, and he'd never been successful.

"Then that's your failing, not mine. Though with such _talent_ at wandless magic, perhaps I should be thankful?" Bent-nose commented snidely. He cast another one of the stinging hexes, catching the boy in the ankle, and laughed again. "Show me your powers, boy!"

All three laughed as Bent-nose peppered him with the painful spells, and he tried to think through the hurt. As soon as they got bored with tormenting him they'd finish him for good.

Salvation came in the form of a glowing blue shield that appeared around him, reflecting the latest spell back at the Saxons. It caught Big-arms in the upper chest, and the man grunted with pain. The eyes of the other two wizards widened with surprise, along with those of the boy.

He blinked. Had he done that?

"Leave him alone."

They all looked up at the female voice. Standing just beside a shed toward the entrance to the alley was a young woman, no more than twenty summers old. She was clad in a grey woolen lacerna, the hood back in deference to the relatively warm day, and plain wool skirts dyed a dull green could be seen underneath. A walking stick - useful in the muddy and slippery streets of Londinium - was held in her right hand, while a basket had been set upon a log to her left. Her stick was sanded and smooth, the wood pale and clean despite the muddy day. The top of the stick was carved into the shape of a snake, its head wide like a cobra, reared back as if coiling to strike.

She was fair to look upon, and the boy was momentarily distracted... fortunately, so were the Saxons. Black hair lent to wildness was restrained in a thick braid that hung down across her bosom, and green eyes the colour of spring grass observed the tableau with a regard that was much colder than the winter day. Her skin was porcelain, obviously never having fallen victim to the slights and poxes that damaged the complexions of other women.

The boy saw this, and saw the lack of fear in her eyes, and saw the way her hand clenched her staff through her fingerless wool gloves. His mind leapt to the obvious conclusion: she was magical. Excitement rose within him despite his predicament. The Saxons, however, saw her clothing and obvious low breeding, and no matter how attractive she might be their lips curled in contempt.

"Begone, wench," said Bent-nose. "This matter is between us and the boy."

"Three of you to express your displeasure with one child? It must be quite the matter. Did he steal from you?"

The men exchanged looks. "No."

"Assaulted you, then? Cursed you? Threw snowballs?" Her face frowned in mock pity. "Oh… you've been made the cuckold." The boy didn't much care for being referred to as a child - he'd lived on his own for near three winters now - but her last comment almost made him laugh out loud despite the bruising of his gut.

Bent-nose's face twisted. "I'll ignore your insolence, stupid woman, if you turn around and leave. But if you insist on sticking your pretty little nose into the affairs of those above you, just as _he_ did, we'll make sure you share his punishment."

The witch only smiled, and the boy decided that was a frightening look on her. "I see you are ambitious men. Show me."

Reedy didn't think much of her confidence. "If you insist…" He flicked his wand, and whatever spell he cast was invisible, but the witch thrust out a palm, her feet gouging ruts in the mud as she was thrust backwards nearly a yard. She kept her feet with effortless grace, and her face showed only scorn.

"Was that supposed to be a Banishing charm? Pathetic. Let me show you how it's done." And she did, but _her_ spell was a faint blue bolt that hammered the ruddy-haired man like a charging bull. The unfortunate wizard was blown clear through the rear wall of the building behind him… there was a crash and the frightened cry of a horse, then silence.

The remaining two immediately brought their wands to bear, the original subject of their anger forgotten. Big-arms hurled a white beam at the witch; she tossed her staff into the air and simply let it hit her, the spell having no effect the boy could see. She caught her weapon and stepped to the side, dodging the red spell Bent-nose had cast, her feet sure even on the slippery ground.

She struck the ground twice with the butt of her staff, and the mud and snow around Big-arm's feet spewed upward, wrapping around him and freezing, his arm caught in mid-incantation. He gasped in surprise and struggled, trying to crack the frozen cage.

"_Bombarda!_" cried Bent-nose, a lavender ray streaking from his wand. It was intercepted by a transparent blue shield thrown up by the witch. The ray reflected off and struck the city wall, causing the stone to explode outward and collapsing a section two yards wide.

The head of the staff twitched in a circle, and Bent-nose was suddenly hanging in the air as if suspended from his ankles. His wand went flying, his cloak and tunic falling down around his face. The boy grimaced, seeing rather more than he desired as a result.

"Ugh," the witch agreed. She traced a line with her hand, and the Saxon fell back down face-first onto the ground. He scrambled to his feet, tugging down his tunic, much to their relief... although the thick, frozen mud and prickly snow coating his privates couldn't have been comfortable. Behind him, Big-arms had managed to loosen his wand-arm enough to dispel the icy trap he was caught in.

"Leave," she ordered, staff at the ready.

Bent-nose was eyeing the wand on the mud near a broken cart, and the boy could see the man considering diving for it. The grey witch could see it, too… her eyes narrowed, and she held her staff more tightly. "Don't be a fool." But the boy was certain the Saxon _was_ a fool, and the man proved it a moment later. A flash of green light met him halfway. What arrived at the wand was a lifeless lump of flesh, blank eyes staring at the sky.

Big-arms had jerked forward as his companion acted, but skidded to a halt as the staff which had so easily ended his comrade pointed in his direction.

"Leave him… or _join_ him," the witch growled.

For all that he seemed to be the big, dumb muscle of the group, the Saxon actually proved to be the smartest. He carefully slid his wand away, and walked past both her and his dead friend, keeping his hands in the surrender position. The witch stepped aside to let him past, keeping out of grabbing range, but he simply kept walking, nervous but not panicked. Despite himself, the boy felt a bit of grudging respect for the man.

When the Saxon was out of sight, she lowered her staff. Her eyes flicked to the side at the boy as he leaned against the wall. "Are you all right?"

He stared at her, amazed. "You're a witch!"

She turned to look at him fully. "Figured that out on your own, did you?" She shook her head. "If they only hit with you with Stinging hexes, you'll be swollen and sore for a while, but that'll be gone in a few hours. The bludgeoning hex to the belly will hurt for a while but you'll be okay. I'd suggest getting out of here in case that other fellow decides to come back." She turned away and picked up her basket.

The boy pushed away from the wall and followed her. She was walking deeper into the alley, not out of it. His stomach hurt, but it was really no worse than the one time he'd been caught stealing bread and the merchant had knocked him down and kicked him. "No, no, I mean… you're a witch! You know magic!"

She paused to fix him with a look that said volumes about her perception of his intelligence. "One leads to the other, yes."

"Can you teach me?"

That question brought her up short yet again, looking at him incredulously. "I don't teach." Considering that answer enough, she moved forward again, to a spot deep in the alley. There was nothing else to see there, with the back of a shop on one side, the city wall to the other, and a wooden fence in front of them. The only exit was through a hole in the fence, but he didn't think she was planning to crawl on her hands and knees to pass through it.

"But I haven't found anyone else willing to teach me!" He didn't know why he was so desperate to convince her. Perhaps it was because unlike so many other wizards, she had a measure of kindness along with her power.

"Your streak continues unbroken. Now… good day." She turned, ignoring the fence behind her.

"Please, Lady-" he begged as he grabbed her arm. And just as he did, the world seemed to implode. He felt warped and squeezed, like meat in a sausage casing. And when it was done everything popped, and he fell to the ground with a surprised cry.

They weren't outdoors anymore. He didn't think they were in _Londinium_ anymore.

They were in some kind of house, though no kind he could recognize. It was a single large room, irregularly-shaped, and the walls were hewn out of rock, though they showed no chips from a mason's tools. A fireplace had been carved into the wall, still burning, casting heat and light into the area while a single cookpot sat on the hearth beside it. The floor he lay upon was layered in hides, soft under his backside even as it kept the heat from leeching into the stone he could feel beneath. Grey light streamed in from windows that were too large and clear to have been crafted by mundane hand, and above them the roof was hardened clay. He realized they were underground, in a house set into a hillside.

He was _elsewhere_, whisked away by her magic. Excitement washed through him, overriding his fear and confusion. It was perhaps more… humble, than he'd hoped for, but the magic used in its construction was obvious, and he didn't care if the witch had taken a vow of poverty, so long as she taught him.

Which was looking less likely, the way her face twisted from surprise to anger as she looked down at him.

"_Stupid boy!_" she cried. Abandoning her basket and staff on the floor, she reached down and seized him by the arm. "Stand up!" He was dragged to his feet, and the next thing he knew he was being spun about - which did nothing for his queasy stomach - and her hands were roaming over his body. She seemed to be checking his fingers, nose, and even his ears. "Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Answer me!"

"We're not in Londinium anymore…" he said, amazed.

She fisted her hands on her hips and glared at him. "_I'm_ not, but pieces of _you_ might still be! Are you _hurt_?" He shook his head, and she clout him sharply above the ear. "Of all the stupid… _never_ grab me when I'm apparating!"

The pain from the slap disappeared instantly as he eagerly grabbed onto that word. "Apparating? Is that what that is? We were in Londinium, and now we're here! That's apparating? I've never seen the other wizards do that!"

"That's because they can't," she answered snidely. "And I'm not particularly interested in teaching them how."

"Teach _me_!"

"Enough of that!" She made to grab him, but he danced out of her reach, dodging behind a wooden table that held a clay bowl and bronze cup. Her expression darkened. "You were lucky enough to survive the first trip, but if you make me force you I can guarantee you'll end up splinched. Stand still!"

"Where are we?" he asked, as much to distract her as to know.

She paused from where she looked like she'd been about to leap the table to get at him. "Fidach. In Pictland."

His eyes bugged out of his head. "_Pictland?_" That was nearly to the other end of Britannia, in the blink of an eye!

"That's what I said. Now come, take my hand, and I'll bring you back to Londinium-"

He was distracted for a moment, as her staff was _disappearing_, dissolving into golden sparkles as it lay on the floor. She could have easily snatched him then, but she seemed concerned that he be willing to come along. Her words struck him a moment later and he exploded with frustration. "To _what_? Why is Londinium better than here?"

She stared at him incredulously. "Surely you have a family…"

"My mother cast me out because I have _magic_. The Saxons hunt me for sport because I have magic and I don't know how to use it! Where am I supposed to go?"

He saw her hesitate at that. She wasn't heartless, he knew that already, and hope flared. "There are other masters. Londinium has a strong community-"

"A strong _isolated_ community," he interrupted. "And most are Saxons or Franks themselves! They have no time or interest in a Welsh street rat of unknown 'pedigree'! None of _them_ would have helped me as you did. _Please_, Mistress!"

"Don't call me that!"

"Then what should I call you?"

She sighed. "My name, if you must know, is Muirgen."

He stood straight and then bowed as he'd seen some of the Saxons do. He'd only seen fourteen winters but he was already becoming tall, and he was pleased with it, though it meant he was hungry more often than he'd like. Dark brown hair hung around his face as he nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Mistress Muirgen. _Please teach me_."

She glared at him, her eyes a vibrant green even in the grey light of the winter's day. She cupped her face in her hands, sliding them up to pull on her hair. "You are _such_ a pain in the ass!"

The comment, so baldly put, made him burst into laughter. He snorted and giggled, and she rolled her eyes at him, but he could see her fighting not to smile. "You're not the first to say so," he was finally able to say.

"And I'm sure I won't be the last!" she snapped, but there was the barest hint of mirth in her words. She rested her hands on her hips and stared him down. "You really wish to be _my_ apprentice? You have no idea what you're asking for, I really mean that."

"I'm not scared of work-"

"Oh, you should be so lucky if I were to only challenge your body! Magic is about mind and spirit, boy, and I'll put both to the wheel, I promise you that."

"Good," he said, and he meant it. He squared his shoulders and stared at her resolutely. "I work hard. I learn fast. And I _want_ this, Mistress. I promise _you_ that."

"Don't call me Mistress." She sighed and sat on the bench beside her small table. She rested her cheek on her hand and stared at him, and he was glad to see it was a resigned look rather than a glare. Any moment now… "Fine," she said. "I'm going to regret this, I know it. But I'll make sure you regret it first."

He grinned at the implied threat. He was going to learn magic… let her do her worst!

She glared again at his grin, but he was so ridiculously happy even she couldn't help but smile. It transformed her face, changing her from pretty to beautiful. "First thing, boy-" She hesitated, then shook her head. "I can't keep calling you 'Boy'. What is your name?"

He drew himself up. "Myrddin, Mistress. Myrddin Emrys."

Muirgen froze suddenly, and her eyes went wide. She stared at him until he began fidgeting under her gaze, which caused her to blink and shake herself.

She smirked at him, though there was a rueful look to it. "Very well, Myrddin. Prove yourself useful. Go outside and fetch me some wood. You'll find the pile to your right."

* * *

And so Myrddin settled into her home, and found himself put immediately to work. He had been proven right about her hovel, as even she referred to it; it was burrowed into a small hillside, magic carving earth and rock and hardening the clay above until it had the strength of brick. A small clearing lay in front, with a rough wooden privy constructed off to one side and the woodpile on the other. Small fences showed where gardens would lay in the spring, and the home was surrounded on all sides by trees, mostly pines, heavy with their blankets of snow.

Despite his initial reaction he had to admit the place was homely, warm and welcoming. Far, far, better than the streets of Londinium by any measure. Small knickknacks decorated the shelves placed here and there upon the walls, such as a tiny wooden carving of a strange lion-man, or a statue of a dragon that may have been made of real gold; others were so alien he couldn't identify them at all. A wooden chest bound with iron at the foot of her bed held her clothing, and it looked antique and well cared-for.

Still, he wondered why she lived in such relative poverty, so far from the magicals of the city. The wizards he'd seen in Londinium dressed and walked like nobles, draped in finery. She had no such pretension, and in the privacy of his mind he had wondered if perhaps she was a weak witch, one that couldn't simply conjure the riches that other wizards would. But that made little sense, considering how easily she had thrashed the three Saxons. Maybe British wizards were simply more powerful than their continental counterparts? He liked that idea, though there was no evidence for it.

His first task - after fetching the wood, of course - was to cook dinner. The order took him a bit off guard… especially when it became obvious that he was to do it by hand, since she offered no "cook dinner" spells for him to try. So he muddled through the process, making a stew from some dried venison and vegetables - where did she get fresh tomatoes in February? - that she had near the fireplace.

The outcome was disastrous… it hardly qualified as a stew, it was so watery and bland. The tomatoes fell apart, and the meat needed endless chewing before they could think of swallowing. They suffered the meal because food was not to be wasted, but Muirgen grimaced with every bite, and Myrddin slumped at the table, certain she would throw him out on his ear.

When she finished choking down the meal, she leaned back and folded her hands on her knee. "That was… interesting. Do you know what you did wrong?" It was on the tip of his tongue to say _cooking the meal in the first place_, but he restrained himself. Instead he merely shook his head. "What does that mean? You don't know, or you didn't do anything wrong?"

"Umm… the tomatoes?"

"That's certainly part of it, but there's something more fundamentally wrong. Think."

He struggled for long moments, but couldn't imagine what answer she could possibly be fishing for. "I don't know," he admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly." He blinked at that response. "You don't know how to cook, and you didn't say so. You didn't even ask for guidance, even though I was right here. Lesson number one, Myrddin: _ask_. Tonight we had a meal that didn't taste very good… toying with an unknown spell or potion can get you killed, or someone around you. Do you understand?" Relieved, he nodded. "Good. Now, leave the dishes, I'll take care of those… I have another task for you. Fetch the large and small basins from outside, please."

The next 'task' was even more humiliating: a bath. He protested, but she plainly stated that he was dirty and smelly, and if he thought he was spending the night under her roof he was going to do something about it. He didn't even learn any magic as she set up the bath and the dishwater, as she simply snapped her fingers and warm water filled both basins. Regardless, he was impressed… only half the wizards he'd seen could cast wordlessly, and only a few who could cast wandlessly. Wordlessly _and_ wandlessly was an entire level above that.

So he suffered the bath, scrubbing dutifully and intensely thankful that Muirgen kept her back to him while she washed the dishes and the cooking pot. They chatted while they both worked, a conversation that was primarily her asking questions about Myrddin, about his family. She was surprised to learn that his mother was without magic. But his father was a wizard, one who had seduced his mother with promises of riches and comfort and then promptly disappeared once he'd gotten what _he'd_ wanted.

"And how do you feel about that?" she asked. She'd paused in her washing; there was tension in her shoulders.

Myrddin frowned; was this another test? He decided to treat it as if it was. "I'm angry at her for casting me out. It's not fair for her to blame me for his actions. I would have been a good son to her… given her what he didn't, if she'd let me be her son, let me be magical." He didn't tear up… he'd cried himself out over that years ago, when he was younger, before he'd made the promise to himself to worry about the future.

He shrugged, splashing the water slightly. Being made to bathe was embarrassing, but he had to admit the warm water was relaxing. "As for my father… what he did was unforgivable, and if I meet him I fully intend to thrash him on her behalf, or at least try. But I don't have any anger toward him for my part."

She listened carefully, only the side of her face visible to him. It was so strange, to have someone _listen_… maybe that was why he felt like he could speak. Whatever she was testing him for, he passed… he saw the tension leave her shoulders, and she turned back to her scrubbing. "That's a wise attitude to take, Myrddin. Well done."

He felt warm at the praise. "How about yourself? Do you have a family?" Though she was young, she was old enough to be married, and most women her age had at least one child, even among the wizards.

Muirgen hesitated. "Not yet," she replied. "Maybe someday." For Myrddin, who had long ago trained his ear to detect the mood of a stranger from their voice - it made the difference between begging for a bit of bread and being beaten for asking - her voice had a strange tone to it. But he dared not pry, not so soon. "Are you clean yet? I'd like to take a bath, too."

* * *

Myrddin settled into his new home, though he tried not to think of it as such. It was the home of his Mistress ("don't call me that!") and he was a guest. But it was a roof over his head and the guarantee of a meal, two things which were rare enough in his experience. Add in a warm bed - magically expanded, to his silent delight - and it was as close to paradise as he could imagine.

He was absolutely not going to foul this up, no matter what.

Which is why he said nothing when she taught him no spells the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. Instead he found himself simply being an extra pair of hands on her daily routine, be it cleaning, drying herbs, smoking meat, and so on. She would bring him into the surrounding forest as she searched for winter herbs. There was a large lake nearby, and many useful plants grew around it. Some of the plants could fend off disease, she explained, while others were simply tasty. Others, she didn't explain at all; but still they went into her basket, to be dried and stored. It wasn't magic, but it was useful herblore, so he paid attention.

He continued to cook dinner each night. He took her first lesson to heart, and asked for her help with the task. She didn't do the work for him, but advised him at each step. She explained how to add the vegetables and the meat to produce the best flavour and tenderness, and later she described what herbs would improve the taste yet further. It was a strange process to the street urchin, who'd only ever worried about the _presence_ or _absence_ of food, never concerning himself much with the taste beyond making sure it wasn't rotten. As he'd promised, she never had to repeat herself, and that meal was far better than his first attempt. Each after that showed continued improvement.

But still, he learned no spells.

She used magic extensively in her daily life, and he watched her do it, but there was little to learn from snapping fingers or the tapping of a staff. Was she testing him again? Seeing how eager he was to grab at power? Or maybe the opposite… testing his commitment, seeing whether he was eager enough to learn to properly ask? It was impossible to tell. He counseled himself to patience. Still, it grew frustrating, to the point that after three weeks he was close to demanding a spell… anything, he didn't care how minor.

She'd apparated them both back down to Londinium, to sell her herbs and what appeared to be potions in a stall she would set up in the market square located near the southeastern corner of the city. That region of the city was still relatively wealthy, surviving well as the rest of Londinium fell apart after the departure of the Romans. The potions annoyed him… when had she made those? Why hadn't she gotten his help?

He still he held his tongue. Myrddin was all too aware of the looks he was receiving from passing wizards and witches who recognized his face despite the lack of dirt and with his hair properly tied back. Their scorn for him transferred to Muirgen by association, and he found himself suddenly less annoyed at her than he was angry _for_ her, and he didn't want to make it worse by being impertinent to his Mistress in public. So he kept quiet… and by doing so he learned that she was a fearsome haggler. She was perfectly willing to use the imaginary superiority of her customers against them, letting them think they were doing her some act of charity by buying from her, and he crowed in his own mind at every coin she took from their pockets.

Later he felt shame... because, after she closed up her stall, she lead him around the market and spent every one of those new coins on _him_. The new pillow couldn't have been for her; the men's nightwear definitely wasn't. She had the tailor craft trousers, a few shifts, and a coat for him, while the cobbler worked on new, properly-fitting boots. Afterward they made a visit to the alley that held so many wizarding shops, visiting the apothecary and using the remainder of the coins to purchase a pewter cauldron.

The winter sun had already set by the time they'd arrived back at the Hovel - it had already become a proper noun in Myrddin's mind - and Muirgen immediately set about putting away their purchases. He'd been utterly shocked to learn that the chest at the foot of her bed was actually far larger on the inside than the outside, and her things had been neatly pushed to the side to make room for his.

All thoughts of challenging her instruction had been forgotten. Instead, something else bothered him. "Muirgen?"

"Hmm?" she acknowledged wordlessly. She was kneeling, arm buried up to the shoulder into the wooden chest.

"I want you pay you back for what you had to spend on me."

"What?" She blinked at him, and then returned to her task. "Don't be silly. You needed those things, and you didn't have the money yourself."

He blushed. "I know. But someday, I _will_ have the money, and I'd like to pay you back then."

She abandoned her packing, looking at him directly from her spot on the fur-covered floor. "Myrddin, you're my ward-"

"I am _not_ your _ward_," he said, more fiercely than he intended. She frowned, and he raised his palms in apology. "Sorry… but I'm not. You're my teacher, and my…" - he struggled for a moment, until the right word came to him, a word he hadn't had cause to use before - "... my friend. Please… I can't accept charity from a friend, not and still respect myself. Do you understand?"

Her face, which had hardened when she thought he was rejecting her kindness, eased and her gaze was gentle. "I understand. If it's that important to you, so be it."

"It is."

"Very well," she nodded. "I'm sad to see you claim adult responsibilities so young, Myrddin."

"I stopped being a child long before I met you. You had no hand in it."

"And thus can claim no credit. You're becoming a fine man, and at your own hand at that." Despite himself, he coloured at the praise. Muirgen sighed. "Will you at least let me count some of your services toward this so-called debt?"

That sounded ideal, particularly since it would hopefully include potion-making or _something_ magical. "Of course."

"Good. Then go get some firewood."

Or not.

* * *

Thankfully the next day she _did_ start him on something new - specifically, potion-making, using the new cauldron purchased the day before. It wasn't spellcasting, but it was something, and it was magical, so he was satisfied. She showed him the plants they'd gathered - the ones that had simply been stored - and explained what they were and how they could be used. She showed him small pots filled with other ingredients that he'd thought were too stereotypical to be real until he'd actually seen them, like newt's eyes and centipede legs. She touched on the magical properties of actions as simple as stirring in a certain direction a certain number of times… it remained a mystery to him, but she promised there was a logic behind it, one that would become obvious once he'd begun learning arithmancy. She wouldn't teach him that until he'd had some basis in mathematics, which she was teaching him alongside his letters.

He'd been embarrassed to admit that he was illiterate - oh, he'd puzzled out a lot of words and their meanings by himself, but he didn't call that being able to _read_ - but it hadn't surprised her at all. Literacy was rare, even among wizards, so it was simply added to his lessons. They were both certain he'd learn it as quickly as he picked up everything else.

Brewing potions was hard work. Sometimes an ingredient had to be processed three or four ways before it was suitable for use, and _then_ the task of actually making the potion could begin! Sometimes you wouldn't know you'd fouled up an earlier step until much later. Muirgen always did her potion-making outdoors to avoid stinking up the Hovel… which meant they were sometimes constrained by the weather, and even as winter began to turn to spring it was frigid work.

Nonetheless, when Myrddin bottled his first batch of Pepper-Up potion - so named because of its energy-boosting properties as well as the amounts of fermented peppermint that went into making it - he felt like he'd _finally_ taken the first real step to becoming a wizard. It helped him avoid dwelling on the fact that Muirgen had yet to teach him a spell.

But Myrddin watched, and Myrddin listened. One morning Muirgen lit the fire using a spell… it was a cold morning, and she was still drowsy, and he heard her mutter _Incendio_ under her breath as she did it. The next day they set up for an afternoon of potion brewing… she was going to teach him how to make a tooth-strengthening mouthwash, as apparently she was quite concerned about the state of his teeth.

Myrddin had stared at the outdoor fire-pit. It was already stocked with wood, and eagerness overcame him. He snapped his fingers as he'd seen Muirgen do. "_Incendio_!" The wood burst into flame. Not a strong flame, but one that caught well enough and eventually spread until the pit was burning nicely.

He turned and found Muirgen looking at him, her basket in her hands, slightly wide-eyed. He winced and braced himself for a scolding for having overreached himself.

Instead, she shook her head and sighed. She set the basket down on a nearby boulder that often doubled as a table, turning to look at him wryly, one fist on her hip. "Well, if you're going to jump ahead like _that_, we might as well get you a proper wand."

Myrddin grinned.

* * *

A new wand meant another trip to the city. After they'd finished their brewing and storing away the product - minus one vial which she insisted he use immediately - Muirgen put on her cloak and summoned her staff. Myrddin still didn't know where she kept it when she wasn't using it, he just knew it would appear in her hand in a soft golden glow when she did. He put on his new overcoat, never failing to marvel at having a warm coat that fit properly. Then he took her arm and with a soft pop they were in Londinium.

It was early afternoon, and the streets were still busy as they walked through the magical district of the city. Men and women, finely attired, strode through the narrow streets, and Myrddin guessed that they were all wizards. Muggles generally avoided the area. Having been subject to the arrogance and capriciousness of wizards himself, he couldn't fault them for it.

"Ollivander is an odd man," Muirgen warned as she lead him, "but he's a master of wandcraft. It's an art as much as a science, and he's a master artisan."

"Just wands? Not staves?"

"Not many wizards use staves. I doubt he has the materials."

"Who made yours?"

"I did, a long time ago. And I can make one for you, too."

"Then why not just do that?"

"Because you're still learning, Myrddin. You don't wield a great-axe before you've even swung a wooden stick."

"A staff _is_ a-"

"Don't you _dare_." He grinned unapologetically.

She lead him up the steps to one shop set between the apothecary and a magical menagerie. There was little to distinguish it other than a golden-painted wand hung above the entrance. A bell rang as they opened the door, but Myrddin saw no sign of one anywhere. The shop was small and cluttered, filled with shelves, some stacked high with small wooden boxes. Others held pieces of wood, whittled carefully into small cylindrical shapes, while still others held jars and pots, containing hairs and bits of flesh and even plant stalks.

A set of stairs was set to the side, and they creaked as the shopkeeper slowly descended them. He was an old man, even for a wizard, and his beard was silver and trimmed in a Roman fashion. Even the cut of his tunic marked him as a Roman, and Myrddin guessed he was a wizard from the continent, perhaps migrated to Britannia before the Empire tossed aside its neglected territory.

His theory was lent support a moment later as the man greeted them in fluid Latin. "Greetings, my Lady, may I help-" The old man - Ollivander, presumably- stopped near the bottom of the steps as he caught sight of Muirgen. Grey eyes, so light as to almost be silver, widened as he looked at her. "L-Lady Muirgen?"

If she noticed the shopkeeper's reaction she chose to ignore it. "Greetings, Master Ollivander. Is your shop open today?"

The man visibly shook himself. "O-of course, my Lady. Is it for the lad?"

"Yes, please."

Ollivander nodded. He took out a marked string and began measuring Myrddin… lengths which didn't surprise him, like the size of his hand or the length of his arm, but also things that made no sense at all… like the distance between his earlobes or from the point of his nose to the corner of his mouth. And the whole time, though the shopkeeper seemed to be concentrating on his task, Myrddin saw him peeking at Muirgen out of the corner of his eye. The witch herself leaned sedately against the wall.

"Let's give this a try for a start," Ollivander said. He handed Myrddin a wand. "Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Give it a wave." Myrddin did so, and nothing happened. "No? Very well, how about this?"

And so the afternoon went. One wand after another, each one declared unsuitable. Sometimes the results were spectacular - one wand, immediately upon touching his skin, shattered every shelf in the room ("Odd, usually veela hair wands like handsome young men", Ollivander had commented). But the majority gave no reaction at all, as if Myrddin was holding nothing more than a piece of kindling.

He grew worried as the day drew on and no wand seemed to "bond" to him as Ollivander said one should. His fears seemed justified as the shopkeeper ran out of wands for him to try. He turned to Muirgen with a flabberghasted look on his face. "I must apologize, my Lady, but it seems none of my stock is a match for the lad."

She raised an eyebrow. "None?"

"We've tried every wand I have. He could possibly make do, but the match will be inferior. The boy can channel a surprising amount of magic for one his age."

"So the problem is the core?"

Ollivander nodded. "The best match was the dragon heartstring, but even that couldn't keep up. An aspen and heartstring wand might do, but it will be frustrating for both him and the wand."

Muirgen looked down, pondering. Myrddin could barely still his tongue… he didn't want to consider the possibility that his education might end before it even began, just because a _wand_ didn't find him worthy!

"There's one thing we might try," Muirgen said pensively. She held out her hand, and a wand _appeared_ there in a shower of golden sparkles. Myrddin looked on admiringly, having seen her do the same trick with her staff several times, but that was nothing compared to Ollivander's reaction. Silver eyes widened in shock, and the old man actually took a step forward, hand reaching out, before he mastered himself.

Ignoring the shopkeeper, she held the wand out to Myrddin. "Try this one."

He took the wand from her hand gingerly, as if it was an illusion and his fingers might pass right through it. Warmth suffused his being as he wrapped his fingers about it, and though it didn't feel _perfect_, it felt more _right_ than any of the other wands he'd tried. He blinked up at Muirgen.

She gestured. "Well? Give it a wave."

He did. Ollivander's front door exploded outward, showering passersby with chunks of wood. Indignant squawks and invective were thrown back.

Ollivander didn't seem to care. "Yes, yes! The wood is very badly matched, but the core is just right. Is… is this a _conjured_ focus, my Lady?"

She glanced back at them from where she was repairing his door, pieces of wood drifting back in from the street and rejoining as if they'd never been separate. "Not exactly," she replied. Myrddin had noticed that was the way she answered questions she didn't want to answer… meaningless words that said nothing. "That one is holly and phoenix feather."

"_Phoenix_ feather?" He looked down at the wand. "I have no phoenix feather wands, my Lady. The birds are stingy with their gifts…"

"I figured as much. If we obtain a feather, could you make an appropriate wand?"

Ollivander's reply was slow, as both man and boy stared at the holly wand, which was dissolving back into the golden sparkles from which it had appeared. "Ye- Yes, my Lady. Aspen and phoenix would be perfect for him."

"Very well. We'll be back before nightfall. Come, Myrddin."

The left via the newly-rebuilt door, the wide-eyed wandmaker behind them. Muirgen lead them down the street, back to the isolated corner where they'd arrived.

"Phoenix feather?" Myrddin asked, unable to stifle his curiosity.

"Magical birds," she explained. "Extremely good, and extremely powerful. Even their feathers are rife with magic, which makes them very good wand cores. I should have anticipated this."

"So how do we get a feather?"

"Simple: we ask for one." They'd arrived at the hidden corner. Muirgen held out her arm, and he took hold. There was a quiet whoosh of air, and they were gone.

* * *

The land they arrived in was... beautiful, even to Myrddin's jaded eye. Where Britannia was just entering spring, the air that greeted them felt far warmer, as if they'd arrived in late spring or early summer. The grasses were rich and tall, and the trees around them were thick with bright green leaves. The small field they had landed in was dotted with flowers, and Myrddin could even see plump red apples dotting some of the trees.

How far had they travelled? Muirgen had proven to be able to carry them both from one end of Britannia to the other without the least effort… had she whisked them further still, to far Greece or Rome, or maybe even to the mysterious Far East?

"Where are we?" he asked, remembering Muirgen's admonishment to do so when he didn't know something.

"Where? This is Avalon."

"Avalon?" Myrddin knew that name from his numerous attempts to eavesdrop on wizards. They spoke of it in reverent tones, but also warning. "But… isn't Avalon defended by some terrible witch-" He saw her lips twitch, and his eyes bulged. "_You_?"

"Yes, _me_," she leaned on her staff and looked at him. "So, do you think I'm the 'terrible witch', or that I couldn't possibly be? Think carefully, my friend."

Though he knew she was teasing, he backpedaled quickly. "Where is it? It's much warmer here than Londinium. Are we to the south?"

"That's a good guess," she said, "but no. We're actually southwest of Wales, about two day's travel by sea."

"But it's so warm!"

"Yes, isn't it? That's the nature of this island. It's always late spring here… the apple trees always bear fruit, the flowers are always in bloom. Magic suffuses this place, which is why the phoenixes nest here. I would call it their island before I'd call it mine."

Muirgen began walking, leading him in amongst the trees. He kept up, but he needed to be extra careful to avoid tripping on a root or stone as he gawked. "Why wouldn't you live here, instead of Pictland? It'd be much easier, wouldn't it?"

"I don't allow _anyone_ to live here. In fact, you're the first human to step here other than myself in… well, quite a long time."

"But if it's your island-"

"No, it's not my island. I'm its caretaker, yes, but the island rightfully belongs to the phoenixes and the other gentle magical creatures they've brought here." She came to a stop next to a tall willow. "This place is as close to sacred as any I've ever been. I don't deserve to live here."

"But… you're a good person. You're kind, and humble..."

"Thank you for saying so. But you've seen me kill, Myrddin. Don't doubt that I have a dark side. Everyone does. I know mine intimately." She gave him a rueful smile. "I'm not the queen of the castle, I'm the dragon out front."

He had no response to that, so he said nothing. They began walking again, and she lead them across a wide field and to a tall hill. A cleft divided the hill in two, wide enough for two people to navigate side-by-side, grey stone stretching to the sky on either side. A few grasses tufted out of the slanted walls of the cleft, but for the most part the stone was bare.

Muirgen paused, looking at the path winding into the hill. She seemed oddly nervous, but she hid it as she turned to him. "This is where they nest."

"What must I do?"

"You must go up to them and ask them for a feather. _Ask_ them, they'll understand you. And don't bother picking up one of the feathers that might lay near their nests. The feather must be given, freely, by the phoenix."

He looked at her worriedly. He'd viewed the trip as another adventure, but that was when he thought she'd be beside him the entire time. "And they'll be willing to give one to me? A lowly street rat?"

She looked at him sternly. "These are ancient and powerful creatures, Myrddin. They don't care about _human_ notions of power and status… they can see into your heart. They're creatures of light, yes, but they're also creatures of _rebirth_. You're becoming something new… that interests them."

Myrddin nodded, and walked slowly toward the cleft. At the entrance he paused, but fought down the urge to look back at her… he didn't want to seem cowardly, especially in front of Muirgen. He reminded himself that she wouldn't have brought him here if there was any danger. Squaring his shoulders, he strode forward. The divide bent a dozen paces in as he followed the path. At one spot it narrowed, and he had to turn sideways to progress. But very quickly he heard sounds, and knew the phoenixes were nearby.

He'd never _seen_ a phoenix before, but the birdsong he heard couldn't have come from any other creature. It seemed to fortify him and give him courage; he walked more quickly, and soon emerged into a hollow. The rock stretched upward in the bowl-shaped area, and dotting the walls were numerous nests made of straw and twigs. Oddly, the floor of the hollow was coated thickly with ashes… as if the area had been host to countless campfires.

In most of the nests there were phoenixes, and Myrddin felt awe as he saw them for the first time. They varied in size, from no bigger than his fist to the size of a pheasant. Even the smallest had a long, beautiful tail, and every one of the birds was covered in red and yellow plumage, the colours of the feathers so bright that they seemed to glow even in the daylight. As he approached, dozens of golden eyes turned to regard him. The trilling chirps halted, and he felt oddly ashamed at being the cause.

"Um… hello?" A few turned their heads to regard him out of the opposite eye; others looked at each other, as if speculating among themselves about this strange human that had wandered into their midst. He had no idea what to say… "just ask" seemed to be too simple.

He didn't know if human politeness meant anything to them, but decided it couldn't hurt. He bowed. "My… my name is Myrddin Emrys. I-I'm a wizard… or trying to be, at any rate. My teacher, Mistress Muirgen-"

That brought a reaction. Half a dozen of the phoenixes leapt from the nests and swooped down on him. He flinched, and barely resisted running away, but it wasn't an attack. One landed gently on his shoulder, though the claws pinched slightly as it gripped him; a few others landed around his feet, looking up and him and examining his boots with curiosity. Perhaps the most disconcerting was the one that landed on top of his head. He blinked, nearly cross-eyed, as a feathered head curled down to stare at him upside-down.

"Uh? Hello?" The phoenixes ignored him, chirping among themselves. It really sounded like a conversation, and he was certain they were discussing him. It was a lovely sound, and he was loathe to interrupt, but what was he supposed to be doing here? "Muirgen thinks I need a phoenix feather wand. Ollivander doesn't have any, so we came here." The phoenixes had stopped chirping and were watching him carefully. "I really want to learn magic. Can you help me?"

The birds looked at him and each other. A few quiet chirps were exchanged. The discussion went on a while, during which Myrddin shifted nervously from foot to foot. The one on his head seemed to sense this, trilling something calming which interrupted the ones on the ground. Then one of the ones around his feet chirped something decisive; it lifted a wing and plucked a feather, which it laid at his feet.

"Is that for me?" The one on top of his head smacked him on the side of the head with a wing. "Ow. Okay, dumb question." He bent down - awkwardly, thanks to the birds balanced in his shoulder and head - and picked up the feather. Despite reminding himself to be cautious, elation grew in his heart. "Thank you, truly. Um… is there anything I can do for you in return?"

His answer was most of the phoenixes leaping into the air, fluttering back into their nests. He winced as the phoenix on his shoulder squeezed its claws just before taking off, probably leaving behind some tiny punctures… he'd have to check later.

The one on top of his head stayed… it looked at him, still upside-down, and chirped something at him that he couldn't understand. At his look of confusion, it seemed to roll its eyes - how did a bird roll its eyes? - and pressed one wing against his face, applying gentle pressure until he turned around. It smacked his shoulders with both wings, like a knight spurring a horse. Myrddin began walking. The phoenix trilled again, and it definitely sounded like laughter.

His neck was beginning to get sore when Muirgen finally came into sight. She was sitting on a large boulder patiently, her staff and cloak lying across her lap. Her eyebrows flew at the sight of the phoenix and its 'noble steed'. She sighed and pursed her lips with annoyance, though it wasn't aimed at Myrddin.

"Is that really necessary?" she demanded, and he realized he wasn't the one being spoken to. "If you want to talk to me, you know where I am." The phoenix chirped and trilled. Whatever was being said, Muirgen seemed to understand it, and it aggravated her further. "Of _course_ I know! Why do you think I brought him here? And it's really rather rude to talk about him when he can only understand half the conversation."

"You're talking about me?" he asked. The whole situation was far too strange. He was ignored, the bird on his head chirping rapidly at Muirgen.

"Of course he will. They all do. Would you have me abandon him?" Oh, he didn't like the sound of that at all. More chirping. "I can take care of myself, thank you! Now, do you have something useful to add, or can we get back to Ollivander before _he_ gets too old?"

Myrddin could swear he heard the phoenix sigh. It shifted on his head, which actually resulted in its talons digging painfully into his scalp, and he grit his teeth. The motion was brief, and then the phoenix dipped its face toward his again. It held another luminescent red and gold feather in its beak.

"Another one?" he asked with surprise, reaching up to take the feather.

"He hasn't even cast his first spell yet!" Muirgen snapped. "It's bad enough you meddle in _my_ life, do you have to plot his course as well? Go! Go lay an egg!" She swatted at the phoenix, which leapt into the air, flapping around and squawking angrily. Muirgen responded with a gesture Myrddin was pretty sure a lady wasn't supposed to make. She seized his arm and lead him away down the path, making a point to walk under the trees. The phoenix called out one last aggravated chirp at their backs, and then it was flying back to the nesting area.

Muirgen was muttering under her breath; not in Welsh or Latin or any other language Myrddin recognized, but he could tell frustrated cursing when he heard it. He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to draw her ire onto himself. After a while, when they were halfway to their arrival point, she sighed and released his arm.

She glanced sideways at him, and seemed to realize he was nervous to speak, like a child caught between two warring parents. She sighed again. "Sorry about that. It had nothing to do with you, despite how it might have seemed. The phoenixes and I have our difficulties. But they like you, that much is obvious."

He curiosity couldn't be suppressed. "Why? Why don't you and the phoenixes get along?"

"Remember how you made it clear to me that you didn't want me thinking of you like a son?" He nodded. "Well, I've had less success getting them to stop thinking of me like a wayward chick."

He didn't react, but it certainly explained the tone of the phoenix's chirping, and why it sounded so familiar to him. It was the sound of a frustrated parent.

Another item on the growing list of mysteries about Muirgen.

They entered the clearing that had greeted them when they first stepped foot on Avalon, and Muirgen turned to him. "Give me one of those feathers." He reluctantly handed over one. "You keep the other. That one is for your wand. _This_ one is for your staff, which I'll make for you later. _Much_ later, so don't get excited. I'll keep it safe until then. Now, come, let's go have your wand made."

Fighting down a grin, he took hold of her offered arm. And then they were gone.

* * *

It was well into the evening before they apparated home. Too late to cook dinner, so they had to settle for a meal of bread and cheese, and an apple or two from Avalon that Muirgen had picked while Myrddin spoke to the phoenixes.

They went to bed early, exhausted by the events of the day; she refused to teach him even the tiniest spell until the next morning, so he amused himself by waving his new wand everyplace, showering the Hovel with golden sparkles. Muirgen had rolled her eyes and told him if he kept it up he was going to go blind… there was innuendo there he didn't understand, but he was sure he'd figure it out later.

Later that night they lay in bed, the dying fire casting dancing orange light around the room. For once Myrddin was distracted from the warmth of Muirgen's body beside him, laying on his side facing the fire, his wand in his hand.

_His_ wand. He felt warm thinking about it; he felt warm just holding it. Tomorrow his education would begin for real, Muirgen had said. Not theory but practice… and with it the first steps to a new life.

His wand. Made for him by a master wand crafter, gladly taking a lump of gold Muirgen had offered in trade, not even negotiating a price. Myrddin had little grasp on what the worth of such things was, but he thought that any master craftsman who was known throughout all of Britannia as the sole source of wands could likely command any sum he desired. And yet he had leapt to Muirgen's need, as if she was the one doing him a favour.

Why would an older wizard - a transplanted Roman, no less - defer to a young witch who lived, literally, in a hole in the ground in the lands north of Antonine's Wall? And then there was Ollivander's reaction to her appearance; he had _known_ her, but was surprised to see her. As if he knew who she was immediately, but doubted his own eyes.

And _then_ there were the phoenixes.

Behind him under the covers she slept, in what had become their standard positions in the magically-enlarged bed: she facing the window, him with his back to her, facing the fireplace.

"Muirgen?" he called softly.

He felt her form shift behind him. "Mmm?" she answered, barely intelligible.

"How old are you?"

She was quiet for such a long time he thought she'd fallen back asleep. Finally she shifted a little. "Don't know. Why?"

He slipped the wand under his pillow, pulling the covers up. "Just wondering."

"Get some sleep," she mumbled. "Tomorrow will be busy."

"Yes, Mistress." He grinned at the growl that came from her side of the bed.

* * *

"Magic is the imposition of your will upon the world, just like a sculptor imposes his will upon clay or stone. Your wand is merely the tool with which you shape that will."

Myrddin sat at the main table in the Hovel. It was only slightly after lunch... after dealing with the normal chores in the morning, they'd had a small lunch of bread and cheese before Muirgen had instructed him to clear the table and fetch his wand; he'd done so with such alacrity that she had barely finished speaking before he was done. She'd sat him at the table and placed a single small stone in front of him, smooth and round, no larger than her palm. Now she was pacing around him slowly, holding her own wand, which she'd summoned from the aether just as she'd done in Ollivander's shop.

"Up until this point, you've been using _only_ your will. To use the axe analogy again, it's like you haven't been using an axe at all… you've been beating your magic into shape with your fists. That's not particularly efficient, and against someone _with_ an axe, it'll get you chopped to pieces."

Myrddin frowned. "I was able to throw that Saxon."

"Yes, you were. You wanted him to move, and your magic made it so. But your will was simple… 'Saxon, face in the mud, please'. Could you have pulled his wand from his hand? Or turned the mud around his boots to stone? Or overcome his own magic so that you could turn _him_ to stone?"

He shook his head. "No, I couldn't."

"Well, let's do something about that. Observe: _Wingardium Leviosa!_" Her wand traced a simple pattern in the air, and the pebble rose to float just in front of Myrddin's nose. After a moment she let it settle back to the table. She traced the movements again. "Swish and flick, do you see? Now… you try."

He lifted his wand and frowned at the pebble. He'd already proven he could lift someone the size of a grown man without training… couldn't they start with something more… well, impressive?

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Muirgen leaned down to look in his eyes. "Magic is will and skill, Myrddin. The opposite is uncertainty and doubt. As you succeed, your confidence will increase, and the power will come more easily to you because of it. There's a reason why most wizards are arrogant.

"As you refine your spellcasting, you will _know_ how the magic is supposed to feel and flow, and that will make your technique actually matter less. But the opposite is true… if you mess up a spell, you'll doubt yourself, and that can interfere with your next spell, catching you in a terrible trap." She raised an eyebrow and poked him in the middle of the forehead with a slender finger. "So don't get fussy over a lesson that seems below you."

Myrddin blushed, embarrassed that he was read so easily, but nodded. "I understand."

"Good. So… give it a try. Remember: swish and flick."

Myrddin stared intently at the pebble. Then he raised his wand, _swished_ and then _flicked_. "_Wingardium Leviosa!_" The small stone rocketed straight up, smashing into the roof of the Hovel. A rain of clay and stones fell onto the table with a clatter, some splashing into Muirgen's cup of tea.

He was caught between embarrassment and fright as he looked over at his Mistress, who was looking at the new hole in her roof, her face expressionless. He winced, bracing himself for her rebuke.

Instead, she reached over and picked up one of the larger stones, placing it in front of him. "Very well, a little _less_ swish this time…"

* * *

Life settled into a routine, and the days passed. Each morning was spent dealing with the chores around the Hovel, be it preparing food, such as curing meats or making bread, or cleaning. Myrddin had learned that for all that she lived in a hole in the ground, the witch was obsessed with cleanliness.

Afternoons were spent learning magic, and Myrddin was in heaven. She introduced him to the categories of magic that she called Charms and Transfiguration. Transfiguration was his personal favourite, especially once she explained that conjuration was part of the discipline.

Every other day was still devoted to potions or ingredients-gathering, but Muirgen wound the lessons together. He learned the Severing charm to help harvest plants, and the Preservation charm to keep them fresh. He learned why he should never drink transfigured water, and how to Summon it instead… both extremely valuable lessons should he become lost in the forest. And when they were in the forest, Muirgen also took the time to teach him of the magical animals there, the ones that instinctively hid from muggles… or, just as instinctively, killed them on sight. He learned to recognize dragon spoor, and how to protect his belongings from theft by mischievous pixies. Though she didn't yet touch on battle magic, she taught him spells useful for dealing with specific creatures.

Late summer was upon them, and the two had gone deeper into the forest than was usual, seeking the herbs that were ready for picking that late in the season. Soon the air would start to cool and the leaves begin to turn, and they'd be after the potion ingredients that gained strength at the equinox. Potions made with such ingredients had strong restorative properties, and were popular items to sell in the fall when he and Muirgen made their monthly trip to the city.

Myrddin carefully picked his way among the trees. The sun was beginning to dip in the sky, and he was getting hungry… he'd turn back and find Muirgen soon. He'd found some edible mushrooms, and was thinking they'd go well with some fried venison strips… maybe with some roasted potatoes? His stomach rumbled in agreement.

So distracted was the young man by the prospect of the coming meal that he didn't realize he wasn't alone… until the others announced themselves by burying an arrow into the tree next to his head. He cried out with alarm and stumbled back, dropping his basket as he snatched his wand from the leather wrist holder Muirgen had provided him.

Around him the hooves thudded against the ground, kicking up moss and snapping twigs. Myrddin blinked as the caught first sight of the intruders. Each was not a mounted human like he thought, but some strange blend of man and horse, as if someone had removed the head of a horse and replaced it with the torso of a man. All three were armed with bows. Myrddin watched as one of the horse-men - obviously the one that had shot at him previously - notched another arrow and lifted the bow toward him. He pointed his wand at that horse-man, which made the other's face twist angrily.

He barely had a moment to twitch his wand before the arrow was loosed. The arrow was transfigured into a feather in mid-flight, and fluttered away. He ducked behind a tree, narrowly avoiding another.

He had no offensive spells! Realizing he couldn't do anything against the horse-men, Myrddin chose the only wise course of action left to him: he ran.

"_Muirgeeeen!_" Trees rushed past him as he weaved his way through them, trying to deny the horse-men an easy target. An arrow whistled past his ear and glanced off a pine. Behind him he could hear the clopping of hooves, sure and swift despite the roots and branches of the forest. Myrddin abruptly changed course, trying to throw them off, but even without turning his head he could tell they were still on his heels. For all that Myrddin was a swift runner, he couldn't possibly match a horse - or horse-man. They were simply faster.

And more sure-footed. A root caught Myrddin's toe and sent him tumbling, his wand flying out of his hand. He banged his nose and caught a mouthful of pine needles and dirt, his head spinning. The thumping of hooves surrounded him and when he rolled over, he found the horse-men standing over him. The one that had tried to shoot him twice before sneered down at him, and his bow creaked as the string pulled taut. Myrddin winced, but forced himself not to close his eyes.

A branch suddenly swung down as the horse-man loosed the arrow, knocking it away to thud into the soil next to Myrddin. The trees around them groaned, and Myrddin imagined he could hear anger in those sounds. So could the horse-men, as they looked around in sudden panic. The trees bent, and a thick branch reached down again to swat one of the horse-men, knocking him clean off his hooves. More wrapped around arms and legs, pinning the arms of the strange creatures and pulling them helplessly against the trunks of the trees. One of the horse-men found himself with a branch wrapped around his throat, pulling him upward until he was forced to balance precariously on his rear legs.

Myrddin scrambled to his feet. He spotted his wand, and held out a hand to it. "_Accio wand_!" His precious aspen and phoenix-feather wand leaped into his hand.

"Release us, wizard!" gasped the horse-man, the largest of the group, long-haired and bearded. He was also the one being choked by a large rowan.

Myrddin thought that releasing three almost-men who had seemed quite intent on murdering him moments before would be an intensely stupid thing to do. But he couldn't even if he wanted to, so he just replied, "I can't! I'm not doing this!"

"No, _I_ am." Myrddin turned and watched Muirgen emerge from the trees, staff in hand and her face dangerously expressionless. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand to silence him, instead marching over to glare up at the big horse-man, who glared back even as his neck strained against the grip of the branch.

"You overreach yourself by _far_, centaur! Do you remember our bargain?" she demanded. "Do you remember the deal struck when I brought you here?"

The centaur spat down at her. "You dare claim to be the Deliverer-" His voice, a basso growl, cut off with a gurgle as the branch tightened.

"The _bargain_! You!" She pointed at the centaur who was pinned against the ground.

The younger centaur, bare-faced and blond both of hair and fur, struggled to draw breath as animated roots pressed down on his ribs. "P-protect the forest…"

"The rest!"

"Harm not… those who seek… only knowledge."

"Good. At least _one_ of you remembers." She turned a hostile gaze back at the leader of the group. "I don't care who you think I am. But this is _my student_, and if you harm him and break the covenant doing so, you will have earned my wrath twice over!"

She gestured, and the roots and branches released the centaurs. The one leader, released from the choking grip, fell to his knees. Muirgen made a beckoning gesture with her staff, and he was dragged across the ground toward her. She lifted his chin with the snake-headed carving on her staff. "Go back to your village. Speak to Aeoros, if he lives still, and ask about She-Who-Waits, since you obviously need the reminder. Consult the stars, and learn how you nearly set yourself against them! Now, leave!"

She shoved him away ungently with her staff. He staggered to his feet, and stared at her angrily. He almost looked ready to draw the short sword that hung by a leather strap around his torso, but the third centaur took his arm and pulled him away. He continued to glare over his shoulder as they retreated back into the forest.

The blond centaur, apparently the youngest of the group, paused for a second after gathering up the dropped bows. Muirgen watched him carefully, but he only turned to her and bowed. She relaxed, and returned the gesture. Then he turned and galloped into the trees.

Muirgen released a tense breath, then looked back to Myrddin with worry. "Are you hurt? Did they hit you?"

"No," he replied, just now realizing how badly his arms and legs were shaking. He'd been chased many times in his life, but this was the first time with drawn bows. "Who were they?"

She frowned in the direction the centaurs had left. "Centaurs. A more aggravating mix of wisdom and stupidity you will never meet. They're native to the lands around Greece, but they were being killed by the muggles, so they came here. They have a village deep in the forest. They're _supposed_ to help defend the forest, not attack unprovoked. I may have to visit them and make sure their pride isn't causing them to creatively interpret the agreement."

"They called you 'the Deliverer'. What did that mean?"

"I helped them relocate here. I knew their tribe was in trouble back in Greece, and this forest was unoccupied, so I offered them a place."

Myrddin thought, another suspicion added to the pile. "What did you mean when you said 'She-Who-Waits'? And how would attacking me set them against the stars? I'm assuming that means the future… why would I matter? I'm nobody."

She turned to him, scowling. "There's enough people in the world who will try to bargain down your worth, Myrddin. Don't do their job for them. You matter, I'm certain of it."

He flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. "Thank you. But how do you know?" He looked at her intently. "You _know_ things. A lot more than you let on. What is it about me that makes you so certain?"

Muirgen looked at him. After a moment, she sighed. "I think it's time we started you on Occlumency."

* * *

Occlumency, it turned out, was not a spellcasting discipline. Instead, it was a way of defending and organizing the mind. It kept one's thoughts and memories private, and that alarmed Myrddin… after all, the only reason to build a wall around something was because you were worried _someone else could get in_.

Muirgen admitted she possessed the ability, though she promised him she hadn't used it on him.

Myrddin had long wondered about the strange exercises Muirgen did each morning. After waking she would stand in the center of the room and stretch and flex, contorting herself into odd shapes or taking tricky stances which made him wonder how she didn't fall on her face. It was meditative, she explained, exercise for the mind as well as the body. After this she would kneel on the hide-covered floor and simply stay there, unmoving, for long minutes with her eyes closed. Occlumency required him to join her in these strange exercises. It was odd and embarrassing, because he was nowhere near as graceful as his Mistress… he tipped over so many times he lost count. The kneeling position hurt his knees despite the furs that carpeted the floor, and he was utterly incapable of 'stilling his mind', as she asked.

All his life his mind had raced, sometimes in a dozen directions at once… trying to make it stop was like trying to make an overexcited horse stand still. For the first time since she'd begun teaching him, Myrddin struggled. He was motivated… he wanted his thoughts private! But it was over six months, well into the winter, until he experienced a moment where everything seemed to stop… when their meditative time simply passed in the blink of an eye, and he felt oddly rested because of it.

After a few weeks, when he'd proven he could enter that state consistently, Muirgen took him to the next phase of his training… the summoning of memories on command and dismissing them. This, at least, Myrddin managed with his typical prodigal manner… his memory was excellent already, and he was well-versed in pushing away memories that upset him. Soon she declared he was ready to take the next step: detecting and rejecting intrusion.

She would test him by intruding upon his mind. He would detect her by noticing memories coming forward without prompting; he could eject her by pushing those memories back, and attaining the "blank" state they both sought during their meditations. The first test was a failure, and Muirgen found out that Myrddin had managed to see quite a bit more of her than he'd let on when she took her baths. He'd have quite happily stuck his head into the fire after that, but she'd simply waved a hand dismissively. "You're a teenager," she said, as if that explained it all.

He'd wanted to keep trying, but she refused. "Intrusion bruises the mind, Myrddin," she explained. "Just like with spells, failure feeds failure. Have patience, it'll come."

So each morning was meditation; each night she'd test his defences once before they went to bed. Then, one night, he _felt_ her enter. He felt her reach for a memory, and instinctively denied her, shunting her instead to a memory of their meditations that very morning.

She looked at him, and her pride created a new happy memory for him. "Well done."

It was a few weeks later, as they sat around the table eating the latest meal Myrddin had cooked for them - he was rather proud of it, the thyme he'd added along with the rabbit meat really enhanced the flavour - that Muirgen had paused in her meal and looked at him, a serious expression on her face.

"Now that your mind is secure, I can finally tell you what I couldn't last year… how I came to know the phoenixes, and why the centaurs know me, and more beyond that. It may be a bit difficult to believe-"

"You're older than you look," Myrddin interrupted. "A lot older. Maybe immortal." Really… wasn't it obvious? She blinked at him, jaw loose. "Oops… sorry. Was there more?"

"Apparently not." She glared at her bowl and began stabbing at pieces of meat with perhaps more force than was necessary.

"I could pretend to be surprised…"

"_It's fine_. Eat your stupid stew."

There _was_ more, and once she'd gotten over her annoyance at his theft of her dramatic moment, she explained it. He could understand why she'd doubted he'd believe her, and he admitted that if he hadn't made his own deductions, he probably wouldn't have. Time travel? Predestination? It was outlandish, and yet it explained a lot.

"Is that why you're here? There's something you… need to do?"

"I think so."

"But… you've been here nearly a hundred and fifty years. That's a long time to wait."

"I think you'll find the passage of time doesn't mean quite the same thing to me as it does to you."

Of all the things she said, Myrddin found _that_ was the thing that struck him most. He knew wizards lived much longer than non-magical folk already, but to see empires rise and fall… She had all the knowledge of the past, and hints of the future. "You could be a queen… an empress…"

"_No_, Myrddin," she said, and there was regret in her voice that she did not explain. "That… that path, is not for me. On this, the phoenixes and I agree completely."

"Don't you ever feel… well, trapped?"

"Sometimes," she admitted. "But I do what needs to be done."

* * *

Myrddin had learned very quickly that duty was something Muirgen took seriously, more so than even the most devoted knight. She was also self-sacrificing, perhaps excessively so… he sometimes pondered if he would have the patience to live for hundreds of years alone in a small underground house in an isolated forest, waiting for something that _might_ happen someday. He knew himself well enough to answer that.

He suspected the duty she sometimes referred to had something to do with him, though she was extremely careful - to the point of paranoia - to not refer to it in detail. He had been determined to learn before… but now, knowing the nature of his teacher, he threw himself into his studies with abandon. His occlumency actually helped… whereas once his mind had raced at all distractions, now he could concentrate that speed in a single direction. He learned spells at a rate that astonished Muirgen; and once he'd become literate, he grasped the theory just as quickly.

Muirgen had once admitted that she suspected she was a midsummer baby, when Myrddin had told her that he was born on the summer solstice. He, at least, was certain of that… his mother made sure he knew the exact date when he'd ruined her life. Muirgen herself had vague memories of tragedy associated with her birth, though she couldn't recall the details after incalculable years. As a result, the solstice became a day that the two of them silently agreed to ignore with all the contempt they could muster.

But on the solstice after Muirgen revealed her secret, he decided to break the pattern.

She had chosen the day to make some of her pottery. Her ceramics were of exceptional quality, as popular with the muggles as her potions were with the wizards in the city. It made sense, considering she had thousands of years of practice (he also found it amusing, considering she'd shared with him her original name). But Myrddin preferred to be elsewhere when she was throwing new pots, because of a particular quirk of Muirgen's craft: she never wore more than a loincloth when she did.

"It's just the way I've always done it, in Egypt and onward," she explained with a shrug. "Besides, it's much easier to clean up afterwards." It was perhaps that, more than anything, that showed Myrddin that his teacher was a product of a very different time.

So Myrddin would typically explore the forest, or practice spellcasting, or visit the city while she worked… she had taught him to apparate not long after the encounter with the centaurs, and it was perhaps one of his favourite skills. She encouraged him to practice, since she didn't consider Apparition properly mastered until he could do so as she did, nearly silently. But on this day, as he escaped the muddied, enticing figure of his teacher as she worked, he instead travelled north, toward the mountains and their ore deposits.

When he returned back to the Hovel that night, he bore a gift.

"What's this?" Muirgen asked. Her new pots were drying outside, waiting to be properly fired. She'd bathed away the mud and was fully dressed again, both to Myrddin's relief and disappointment.

"It's a kettle," he replied. He held up the copper item, spelled from the raw ore he found in the mountains. "I made it for you."

In a blink, she Called her wand. "_Finite_." Nothing happened; the kettle remained in his hands, gleaming with polished smoothness. Muirgen blinked. "You actually forged it?"

"Hah! No!" It probably wasn't smart to gloat, but he was rather proud of himself… she could cast an extremely strong dispel. Muirgen was openly contemptuous of wizards who relied on conjury too much, and made sure Myrddin understood why when he showed preference for the discipline. The poor wizard she'd used as an example, his gold and finery reduced to bare linens in the middle of a Londinium street by a dispel cast by a 'mysterious' prankster, had been humiliated and enraged. All the witnesses, Myrddin included, had been tickled pink. He'd taken the lesson to heart, and understood why Muirgen worked for what she had.

So her reaction hadn't been unexpected. "I changed the incantation!" he stated proudly. "I swapped the _gebo_ rune for _othala_ and rebalanced the arithmancy." Though he didn't hold his wand, he demonstrated the movements.

"So you changed it from a conjuration for yourself to one for someone else." She was impressed, and he loved it when she looked that way.

"Yes. The transfiguration can still be broken, but it's much more resistant. It should hold for as long as I want you to have it." He offered the kettle to her.

She took it, smiling softly, and even blushed a little… it was the first time he'd ever seen her do so, and he decided he rather liked the look of it. "Thank you, Myrddin. Why a kettle?"

He shrugged. "It's better than using the cauldron, and I know you like your tea. It's not like you can summon boiling water." _That_ had been an interesting lesson… she'd taken the large cauldron outside and filled it with summoned water, and heated it beyond boiling with more magic. Even superheated, the water hadn't reacted until she'd tossed a pebble in from a safe distance, whereupon it had nearly exploded in a geyser of scalding liquid and steam. It wasn't magic but simple physics, she'd explained… summoned water was simply too pure. Myrddin had been fascinated and resolved to learn more muggle sciences once he had the time.

"Thank you. I think I'll have some tea right now, actually." And she did… and that night, and the next morning. The kettle quickly became her favourite item in the Hovel, and Myrddin was cheered every time she used it.

Time went on, and so did they. Thanks to the improved nutrition, Myrddin's height shot up, until he was a few inches taller than Muirgen by his eighteenth summer. She'd insisted on splitting the profits from the potions they made together, and for the first time in his life he had money, which he gladly used to buy his own clothes and shoes. He didn't just learn magic from his teacher, and he always bargained a good price. Particularly from the seamstress who made his coats, who was an old widow who was scandalized and gladdened by his incorrigible flirting.

He'd told Muirgen he didn't mind if she kept all the profits… after all, she provided him shelter, and he knew that he practically ate her out of house and home. Didn't she need the money? She'd given him one of _those_ looks, the expression that said he was being willfully stupid.

"I was advisor to generations of kings and pharaohs in Egypt, Myrddin," she reminded him. "I have caches as far east as Harappa, and any one of them is near a king's fortune. One thing I am not is beggared."

He let the matter drop, and kept the money.

Four years into his training, when he had shown exceptional grasp of all the disciplines she offered him, she added another: defence. Battle-magic. Far from simply being repurposed charms, these were explicit curses and hexes, using magic to prevent and to cause harm. She taught him spells to shield himself and showed him how to batter down the shields of another. He absorbed that knowledge as easily as he had all the rest, though he was still no match for her even in their mock duels. She simply outclassed him in experience; she could recognize a curse from the barest movement of a wand, and often had the counter-curse out before he'd finished the spell.

These were lessons he learned gratefully, as they allowed him to walk the wizarding section of Londinium alone with confidence. There'd only been one or two incidents where a drunk or obnoxious wizard thought he could bully the young apprentice, but each time he'd been forced to finesse his way out of the situation using cleverly-employed summoning or banishing charms or transfigurations. It was nice to be able to meet the thugs of the wizarding world on a more even basis.

He wondered if that was why Muirgen saved defence for last… making sure he knew how to fight smart before he relied too much on fighting strong. She was difficult to read at the best of times, and he'd noticed a tension in her over the past few months. He tried to coax her into sharing her cares with him, but he had to remind himself that he was her student, and didn't push too hard.

Soon her lessons took a disturbing turn. The spells she showed him weren't simply for defeating a foe, but for causing humiliation and pain while doing so. It confused him… what use was there in making an enemy vomit his own organs, when a simple cutting hex was just as effective, and faster? Why would someone use a Rotting curse, which did nothing to win the immediate duel at all? But she taught him the counter-curses at the same time, and he simply assumed the lessons were linked… learning the poison to better understand the cure.

But finally, on one summer's day, her lessons expanded to include the spells for which there _was_ no counter-curse. Spells that, by her own words, were unforgivable.

Making the rabbit dance had been funny. He could understand the evil of robbing someone of their own will, but the consequences seemed remote at the time. But its screams under the Cruciatus had given him nightmares for days. And the Killing Curse… he hadn't even been able to do it at first, and couldn't understand why… he _wanted_ the rabbit to be released from its suffering.

"And that's why," she said harshly. "The Killing Curse isn't about _mercy_. It's about _hate_. It's about hating so much it flows down your wand and knocks the life clear out of your target."

"But I don't hate the rabbit!"

"You don't need to hate the _rabbit_… you just need to hate! Hate is like fire… it'll burn anything in reach."

"But… I don't hate anyone!" And he didn't. Even his mother, who cast him out…. she was simply stupid and afraid. He father was likewise merely stupid and selfish. They'd both wronged their son, but not with evil intent. "I… I can't do this."

"Then you'll stand here and cast and cast until you can!" Muirgen snapped.

"I won't!"

"Then you'll _leave_!" she snarled. In their years together, he'd never seen her truly angry. Even that first duel with the Saxons had been fought with only mild contempt, and perhaps she'd even pitied the men picking a fight they couldn't possibly win. But now her face was twisted, her eyes blazing, and her magic seemed to heat the air around her. "_You_ came to _me_ to learn. You don't get to pick what I teach you! When you decide you no longer want to learn, you no longer have a reason to be here!"

He'd reeled, his face ashen. Would she do it? Would he really be cast out, again, this time for _not_ embracing magic he wanted nothing to do with? He saw her face, saw the determined set of her jaw, and realized she would.

And at that moment, he hated _her_. Hated that she was taking something he loved so much and perverting it. Making him choose between his soul and his dreams.

He turned and pointed his wand at the poor rabbit. It had been lying, twitching on the grass, waiting for the end; he was ashamed to admit that he could cast a very strong Cruciatus. _"Avada Kedavra!_" A green bolt licked out; the rabbit stopped moving.

He turned to face Muirgen, but his anger died as quickly as the rabbit when he saw her face. She was ashen; there was no pride to be seen for his obedience, no satisfaction at having shown him the dark path. Instead there was sadness and even shame, though he couldn't tell if it was for him or for herself.

She met his gaze. "Well done," she said with a shaking voice. And with that she turned, walking down to the path that lead around the lake and back to her hovel. Her staff seemed heavy in her hand, and her shoulders were slumped.

He watched her go, confused. Then his gorge rose, and he needed to dash over to a tree to vomit. As he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, he looked over to the corpse of the rabbit. He tried not to think too much, although it took all his occlumency to prevent it; instead he took out his work-knife and dressed the carcass, as if he'd brought the creature down with a simple Cutter like any other hunting trip.

He took his time walking back, and it was early evening before he'd circled the lake and climbed the hill to the hovel. It was dark inside; only the waning rays of sunlight angled through the windows to make it possible to see. Muirgen sat at the small table, staring into a goblet of wine. She didn't acknowledge his entrance.

He carefully moved past her, carrying the rabbit over to the fireplace to hang it from a rack. He watched her carefully from the corner of his eye, using his remembered experience from his time with his mother to get a feel for her mood and how deep into her cups she might be. But it was too dark to see how red her eyes were, and she was as still as a statue. She did not react as he pulled out a stool and sat across from her. His mouth was dry, and he was tempted to steal a sip of her wine himself, but decided that would be pushing it too far.

_Ask, Myrddin_. "Why did you make me learn that magic, when you didn't want to?"

She startled, nearly knocking her goblet over. She steadied the cup, licking away the wine that had sloshed onto her hand. "Because you needed to know it," she rasped.

That didn't ease his confusion at all. "Why? Why would I need to know… that?"

"Because someday you're going to have to make a choice, Myrddin." He shook his head, not understanding; she closed her eyes and took a breath. "When you're done with me, when you go out into the world alone, you're going to be faced with choices. I'm not talking about choices like to flee or fight, to seek glory or humility. You're going to have to choose what kind of man you're going to be." Her eyes opened, and she watched him carefully. "I can't, and I _won't_, make those choices for you. All I will do is show you the paths, so you can look at them with clear eyes. Even the paths you don't like, so that you know that they're there."

"But, Muirgen… you're a great witch! Surely can guide me to the right-"

"No! No, Myrddin. Don't you dare put that on me." She lifted a halting finger, and her voice shook. For the first time that he'd known her, he saw that she was afraid. "I can't make choices like that. Not even _through_ you! They're not my choices to make… I can't be _trusted_ to do so."

"And you trust me more than yourself?"

"_Yes_," she declared with fervour. "I'm giving you everything I have. Even my… my _darkness_. Whatever you do with it… will be the right thing. I trust that."

"But what do I do in the future-"

She slapped her palm against the table, and this time her goblet tipped over completely. "Damn you, Myrddin, _don't ask me that_!"

He flinched backward, and he saw guilt flash across her eyes as he did. The puddle of wine spread across the table, dripping in between the planks. He was speechless for long moments, until finally a thought sparked in his mind.

"You're scared of influencing me in the wrong direction," he said softly. Muirgen said nothing, but she flinched almost imperceptibly. "You think you're already a product of _my_ influence, but you don't remember what that influence was. You don't know what direction to send me in to produce… yourself. So you're… sending me in all directions. Even the directions you hate."

"Myrddin…"

He stood up. He moved over to the fireplace. "_Incendio_," he uttered, pointing a finger. He was adept at wandless magic, although combining it with wordless still eluded him for the moment. Fire lit, he set about preparing the rabbit to roast.

She watched him do so, blatantly disturbed. "You brought it here?"

"It suffered and died so I could learn. I wasn't going to leave it to rot on the ground." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "But you don't need to be on the spit with it."

* * *

Off the north shore of the land that would eventually be known as Scotland, there was an island. Not much of an island, mind you; it had no trees, and was dusted with only a few hardy grasses settled into splits in the stone. It was little more than a tor thrust out of the ocean, no more than a hundred yards long, and half as wide. During storms the waves would wash clear across the top, polishing the rock and making it slippery with slime.

A very different storm raged above it on this day. There was thunder, and the rush of wind. But the sky was clear, and little more than a chill spring breeze blew in from the Atlantic. The storm that tore at the island was that of a wizard and witch locked in a fierce duel. Few if any could match the power of this particular pair individually, and those magics were being hurled at each other; caught in between, even rock crumbled.

Myrddin apparated half a step to the side, allowing a particularly fearsome bolt to pass through the space he'd occupied a split-second before. Even with years of effort, he'd never been able to weaponize a Banishing charm like Muirgen had. Thousands of years of practice had turned one of the simplest of charms into a blue beam of force that could shatter a hillside, so strong it had a visible manifestation. Being in front of it was a very bad place to be.

But Myrddin had his own advantages, his own specialities. On his twentieth birthday Muirgen had gifted him with a staff, made from the feather given to him by the phoenixes so many years before. That staff waved and twirled, handled as adeptly as any other wizard could manage with a wand alone.

The ocean at the other end of the island surged like a tidal wave, bearing down on the feminine figure opposite him. She spun, staff high, her raven hair whipping around her in tendrils like Medusa's snakes. The huge wave froze solid. He was expecting that, and the wave shattered into a swarm of tiny ice daggers. But she, too, had been expecting his next move, and her end of the island exploded into flame. When she emerged from the fires she was soaking wet but unmarked, and fiendfyre was roaring toward him, eternally hungry. He summoned a gale, swatting the fires into the ocean where even the magical flames had nothing to subsist on.

He followed up with a Disarming charm, hideously overpowered, and she dodged away from it, right into the path of his Stunner. She threw up a shield; his spell crashed against it with a sound like a mace against a bell, and even her fortress-like shield shattered like glass. She was forced to apparate aside as two dozen stones the size of her head hit the ground like meteors where she had been a moment before.

A trio of bolts flew at Myrddin in response; he shielded, but none came near him. Instead they splashed against the stones around him, and moments later three golems dug themselves out of the ground, roaring. He ducked and rolled away from a rocky fist that swatted at him, coming up onto one knee to blast the golem in half and banishing the pieces into the ocean. But there were still two more; he threw up another shield in preparation for the attack he thought would come while he dealt with them.

It never arrived. Instead, the sky seemed to darken, and the breeze around him became a roar. He glanced up and saw a funnel of wind descending down toward him. Sea spray was pulled up and into it, colouring it white, until it seemed like a huge pale finger was reaching down from the heavens to squash him. It touched the island and he and the golems were surrounded by thrashing, deafening winds.

Huh. That was new.

His clothes snapped around him, and he was glad he hadn't worn a cloak. It was too loud to hear her incanting, but if he was Muirgen, he'd be casting right about now, and- He leapt to the side, almost into the arms of one of the golems. A sickly red bolt passed through where he'd just been, and he shivered. Even he couldn't stand through being hit with a Cruciatus, and Muirgen's were particularly potent. But she used them at his insistence… he needed no boons or handicaps that wouldn't be offered elsewhere in the world.

One of the advantages of a staff was being able to cast from either end of the stick. The truly talented could cast from both ends at the same time, and he was one of them. A pair of blasting curses snapped out in opposite directions, ending both golems at the same time, pebbles spraying against his back. He barely dodged another red bolt, a Stunner this time… she couldn't see him any more than he could see her, and she was casting blindly into the maelstrom.

He had to move quickly before she switched to area-effect spells or she dispelled her tornado and ruined his surprise. The head of his staff traced a series of invisible runes into the air, and he added a shouted incantation to the somatic component. Then he dropped to one knee as if in supplication, striking the butt of his staff against the ground. Rock surged. Like ripples from a stone cast into a pond, it rushed out around him in a wave.

Even over the din of the tornado, he could hear her screech.

He stood, staff at the ready, as the winds died out around him and he could see again. He was alone on the island, Muirgen nowhere in sight. She could be disillusioned; though he doubted it, she was nothing if not cunning. He kept his staff at the ready as he walked to the other end of the tor.

And there she was, in the sea, and Myrddin fought down a laugh at the sight. She coughed and sputtered while bobbing in the water, wet hair stuck to her face and neck. Her staff was gone, fallen into the aether, so she used both hands to try to push the dark stands out of her eyes.

She glared up at him, and he grinned unrepentantly. He waved his staff to push aside the wave that burst from the water to try to soak him, laughing at her pique.

"What was that?" she demanded. It was early spring, but the northern seas weren't warm, and her teeth chattered. "What was that rock… wave… thing?"

He laughed again at her eloquence, receiving another glare. "A variation on your _Arena Animus_ spell," he said, crouching down, bracing his staff for balance.

"Yes, but through solid _granite_?"

"It can work, as you saw. Do you want me to show you the arithmancy?"

The cold sea air blew across them, chill despite the late April weather. Muirgen continued to bob and slosh in the sea, and her skin was starting to turn a bit blue. She had thousands of years of experience at hiding her emotions, but he'd been with her for over a decade, studying her every moment of every day… he watched as she cycled through humiliated anger, worry, pride, and even sadness. But finally she settled on simple joy, beaming up at him as she shivered, and he thought she'd never looked more beautiful. "Teach me."


End file.
